


Death Counted

by trueunbeliever



Series: Death Counted [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment, Adoption, Alternate Canon, Angels vs. Demons, Apocalypse, Azazel's Special Children, Canon Divergence, Canon Remergence, Child Neglect, Cold Oak, Complete, Crossing Timelines, Death and his Pizza, Gen, Hell, Hurt Dean Winchester, Kidnapping, Lucifer's Vessel, Mental Health Issues, Mute Dean Winchester, Pre-Canon, Raised You From Perdition, Reapers, Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester, Sam Winchester's Visions, Sword of Michael, Torture, Weechesters, What if?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 58,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trueunbeliever/pseuds/trueunbeliever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary dies, John is left with the boys. Unable to care for them, he abandons them at a hospital in Chicago and goes off to Hunt alone. Death watches the Winchester brothers through the milestones and counts the souls that could have been saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abandonment

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a one shot, but apparently I'm completely incapable of reigning myself in when I write. So instead, I'm turning this into a multi-chapter fic (that may or may not turn into a series in the future). Expect updates every week. I'm *this close to done with the fic and when I am, I will update more frequently and an accurate number will replace that question mark there where it asks for the total amount of chapters. Read on, Fearless Readers, read on!
> 
> Oh and before I forget, *SPOILERS: up to the end of season 5.

It had only been two months since Mary had died. To John, it seemed like she had died only yesterday. To John, it seemed as if he’d had to live with her death for a decade. He knew just how the boys were coping. Dean wouldn’t speak, not a word after what he’d seen. It was traumatic to say the least and John had seen enough that he knew how horrible things could get.

Dean had seen the worst of anything John could imagine. He watched his mother burn on the ceiling, screaming in agony as blood dripped from the gaping wound on her stomach. He hadn’t spoken a word since that night. John thought that it would pass after a while, could have sworn he’d heard low whispers coming from his son when he was sure no one was listening, but he couldn’t be sure about anything. Dean needed help and John couldn’t give it to him.

John had seen the thing that killed her. He’d seen the yellow-eyed bastard turn and smirk tauntingly at him through the bedroom window where Mary had gone up in flames along with the rest of the house. He knew what was out there. He was tracking it in his every waking moment, looking to find the smug sonofabitch so he could rip it apart piece by piece. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, couldn’t think past his next move, the next hunt, the next town.

That was no life for a child.

Dean was only four, traumatized beyond anything John had seen. He’d been loud, mischievous, rampaging through the house with yells and stomping feet while he played. He’d been stubborn as his mother, only giving in when he’d been thoroughly convinced as to why he needed to do something. He’d been a hell of a four year old—smart and loving, if a bit rough and cunning. That wasn’t Dean anymore though.

He was compliant now, pliable in the worst of ways. It didn’t take even a single look from John before Dean was tending to things, helping pack, feeding Sammy, handing him another drink, never speaking, never protesting when something was too hard for him. John had found him perching precariously on a makeshift ladder trying to get the baby formula from the too-high cabinet to tend to a crying Sammy. John had yelled at the boy then. He’d been just one breath away from falling and hurting himself and John was more worried and scared than angry at him, but he couldn’t keep from scolding his son—something, anything to keep him from doing anything so reckless again.

Dean still didn’t say anything though. He just stood there, trembling at the anger in his father’s voice, tears slowly streaking his face. He didn’t set his foot down or explain the completely valid reason he was trying to reach the cabinet. He just shrunk further into himself and John knew it, but couldn’t do anything but pull him roughly into a hug and apologize for the umpteenth time for the life they had. When John released him, Dean just picked up the formula from where it’d dropped on the floor and continued to make Sammy a bottle, not so much as a peep from the child.

John crept to the doorway of the small bedroom Dean and Sammy were in, taking care that the eldest wasn’t aware of him. He listened closely, over the sounds of Sammy drinking his bottle, to the almost-but-not-quite silent whispers of _SammySammySammy_ he’d heard, but could never really make out until now.

John couldn’t keep doing this. He didn’t know how to take care of two boys by himself. He was never a real parent. Mary had made up for it by being the best mother he could imagine, but he’d always been clueless. Even when Dean was an infant, he’d bumbled around clueless until Mary took over. If it wasn’t for Dean now, John wasn’t even sure he could keep Sammy alive, let alone happy and safe like the four year old did. Dean definitely didn’t deserve this life and Sammy needed someone who could take real care of him.

John pulled into the parking lot of a passing pizza joint for one last meal with his boys. Dean wouldn’t say anything, but the way his eyes went wide and he licked his lips before making a mess with his slice of real Chicago style pizza made the stop more than worth it. John had brought the camera inside with him and he snapped a polaroid of both his boys side by side, Dean with pizza sauce all over his face and Sammy asleep in his carrier.

They left an hour later, though John had barely touch his slice, and were back on the road for only fifteen minutes before John pulled up in front of a nice looking hospital. He unbuckled Dean and Sammy from their car seats, placing the still-sleeping infant in Dean’s arms. He slung the diaper bag over Dean’s shoulder and made sure it had anything he would need for the next few hours until things were sorted.

John sunk down on his knees and pulled them into another hug. He’d never really been one for displays of affection, but he was damned if he was leaving without something. When he pulled back, Dean looked at him curiously and John smirked. Dean didn’t even really _need_  to speak with such an expressive face. John could always tell just what he was thinking.

“Take your brother inside, Dean, and stay put until someone—a doctor or a nurse—comes to get you. Understand?”

Dean nodded once, still confused.

“I love you both,” he said, standing up. “Take care of Sammy.”

Dean nodded again, this time with a fierce look of determination on his face. He would always take care of Sammy, John knew. He never needed to be told.

John stood up. “Go, Dean,” he said.

He watched the four year old walk through the front door of the hospital before he got in his car and left. John wasn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t leave his boys there on their own without someone watching out for them. He dawned his technical support coverall and matching badge, and officialed his way through to the security department. He watched the monitors closely, looking out for his sons, until he was sure they were in safe hands. Once his boys were taken from the hospital, John followed once more to be sure the social worker was legit.

If he was being honest with himself, he’d known he was having trouble letting go. They were safe now, though. They would be taken in by a family that would care for them better than John ever could. They would have lives and grow up away from the things that went bump in the night. They wouldn’t even remember John or Mary burning on the ceiling. Dean would speak again, smile even. They’d be happy.

That thought was the only thing that kept John from busting into the building and taking his sons back.

 

 

_Death counted eight. John’s decisions would lead to the reaping of eight souls that night. The nurse who discovered the children would call her sister after work. The sister would answer her car phone, cutting someone off in the process. The man she cut off, already angry over his wife’s transgressions, would kill eight people the next morning, including his wife’s and his own._

_If John hadn’t decided to take his children to the hospital, if the nurse hadn’t called, if the sister hadn’t cut him off, the man would come home angry and be arrested later on that night for spousal abuse, no loss of life in the scenario._

_As a matter of fact, that was how things were supposed to play out. Death had a copy of the unpublished manuscript. He needed one if he was to know where to send his reapers. John Winchester hadn’t necessarily gone completely off script with his choice. It was more as if he had chosen to follow a different, much less appreciated, plotline. Death had the manuscript for that one as well, but he had been sure it wouldn’t play out that way. It just went to prove that even Death wasn’t infallible._

_That racked up the death toll by eight people. It wasn’t much—nothing, really—in the grand scheme of things, but this was just the first of many decisions that were to be made. There would be much more work cut out for him and his reapers in the coming years what with the impending apocalypse and all. He would consider the time before that as a sort of vacation._


	2. Waiting

Dean sat in the waiting room, surrounded by waiting adults and waiting children and did as the room’s name implied. He waited.

Sammy squirmed in his lap, rustled by the noise of the other children screaming and yelling, and fell quickly asleep again. His Sammy hadn’t slept well the night before. Dean woke up to his whining three times before they could turn to screams and wake Daddy. Daddy wouldn’t have been able to do anything. Only Dean knew how to calm Sammy down when he got fussy. Because Sammy was his, just like he was Sammy’s. He didn’t know why Daddy even thought he had to remind Dean to watch out for his brother. He didn’t need to be reminded to do that. He always took care of Sammy.

Not even the man who killed Mommy could lay a finger on his brother. Dean saw him in the room before Mommy was crying and scared and the fire started. Dean was supposed to be asleep, but he wasn’t. He’d snuck downstairs to watch TV with Daddy after Mommy had gone to bed, not that either of them knew that. He went upstairs and back to bed and saw the man in Sammy’s room. He was as tall as Daddy and scary because Dean knew no one else was supposed to be in Sammy’s room, but then Dean heard Mommy waking up and he rushed quickly to his room where he was supposed to be sleeping.

Dean knew it was his fault. He didn’t listen to Mommy when she told him to go to bed. He didn’t listen to Daddy when he told him to take care of Sammy. He didn’t stop the man from lighting the house on fire with Mommy still inside.

Daddy didn’t know that Dean was in the room right after he was and that he’d seen Mommy on the ceiling, crying, or that while Daddy was looking at Sammy in the crib, she’d looked right at Dean and whispered his name.

Dean hadn’t listened and now Mommy was gone and Daddy was sad and Sammy wouldn’t remember taco Tuesdays or pie for dessert or how Mommy would hum them to sleep. Now Sammy didn’t have a Mommy, but he did have a Dean. The night Mommy died, Dean made a promise. He promised that, from now on, he would listen and he would learn and he would do anything he could to keep Sammy safe and happy. There was no Mommy to take care of Sammy so Dean did everything a Mommy would do for Sammy. There wasn’t a Mommy to take care of Daddy either so Dean tried his hardest to help, but Daddy was harder.

He couldn’t whisper in Daddy’s ear and rock him to sleep like he did for Sammy. He couldn’t feed him or teach him. Daddy did those things for Dean now, even though sometimes he had to go away.

Daddy was sad and it was Dean’s fault.

Sammy was alone and it was Dean’s fault.

Dean was sad and alone and he knew it was what he deserved for not doing what he was supposed to, what Mommy and Daddy had told him over and over. Now, he only had one goal, one rule, one order to center his life around: Protect Sammy.

Sammy squirmed again in Dean’s lap, pulling him from his thoughts. Dean reached into the diaper bag for the bottle Sammy hadn’t finished that morning. He was probably hungry. He hadn’t eaten since before Dean ate pizza with Daddy a long car ride and waiting in the hospital ago. He probably needed to change Sammy’s diaper also. Now that he thought about it, he could smell it.

He focused on feeding Sammy first, uncapping the bottle easily and holding it to Sammy’s mouth. Sammy was old enough now that he could hold the bottle on his own, but Dean liked holding it for him so he did, making sure to wipe his mouth sometimes when the formula dripped down his chin.

Fed and happy, Dean worked on changing Sammy’s diaper. Things got complicated really fast then. He had the diaper open in front of him, wipes at the ready like he’d been taught. He cleaned Sammy quickly, not wanting to prolong the awful smell coming from the cooing infant. He rolled the dirty diaper and the yucky wipes and set it aside. A fresh diaper was harder to put on Sammy since he was big. When he was little, it was easier for Dean to move him how he wanted, but Sammy didn’t like having a new diaper on so it was a bit of a struggle to get him changed now that he was clean. Dean did it though. He got the diaper securely fastened around Sammy’s waist and pulled his pants up quickly.

Dean sat Sammy up in the chair. Now that he was awake, Sammy could sit there on his own. He didn’t need Dean to hold him. Dean scanned the room quickly, looking for a trash can to throw the diaper away and was met with the concerned faces of every Mommy in the room.

“You need some help, bud?” a Mommy asked him, getting down on her knee to speak to him at eye level.

Dean thought about it and shook his head, no. Daddy said doctors and nurses. He didn’t say anything about Mommies and that meant no. Dean was doing what he was supposed to do: take care of Sammy and wait for a nurse or a doctor to get him. He didn’t need any help with those.

 “Are you sure?”

Dean nodded. The Mommy, though, didn’t seem to want to leave him alone.

“Is your mom or dad here?” she asked.

Dean didn’t want to answer any more of her questions so he turned away from her and sat next to Sammy, hugging him close. He didn’t know who the Mommy was, but he knew better than to talk to strangers, even if he wasn’t really talking. He left the dirty diaper on the chair next to him. When a doctor or nurse found him, he would throw it away. Until then, he would sit here and wait like he was supposed to. No talking to Mommies or Daddies or other kids. Only him and Sammy like it should be.

The Mommy kept looking at him, but he ignored her as he sat next to his brother. Dean reached into the diaper bag and pulled out Sammy’s favorite toy, happy that Daddy hadn’t forgot it. He gave it to Sammy who cooed in delight at the colorful plastic ring of keys which went promptly into his mouth. The Mommy left and Dean was happy. It was easier for him to take care of Sammy when someone wasn’t looking.

The feeling was short lived, however, when the Mommy returned with a nurse and a police officer in tow.

Dean hugged Sammy closer when the nurse crouched down to talk to him. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Jenny. Can you tell me your name?”

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. He shook his head, no.

“That’s good,” Nurse Jenny said, smiling at him.

She had a nice smile and Dean really liked it. He wanted her to stay, even if it was only for a little while. He was happy that it was a nice nurse who came to get him and not the one who only came into the room to call out names before disappearing again. She didn’t look as nice as Nurse Jenny.

“It’s important not to talk to strangers,” she continued. “But this here,” she looked up at the man next to her who was dressed like a police officer, “is Officer Steve. You know that it’s okay to talk to police officers and nurses, right?”

Dean nodded. He knew. Daddy had told him that it was okay to talk to doctors and nurses and police officers and fire fighters and teachers and pastors and Sammy, so it was okay. He wasn’t breaking any rules if he answered her questions.

“That’s good. It’ll be much easier this way,” Nurse Jenny said. “So, can you tell me your name?”

Dean shook his head again.

“How about this guy?” she pointed to the baby wiggling in Dean’s arms. “Is he your brother?”

Dean nodded his head and his mouth twitched in a small smile.

“What’s _his_ name?” Nurse Jenny asked.

Dean ruffled through the diaper bag and pulled out the only thing he had left from Mommy and the old house: the small blanket he’d carried Sammy outside in, the one that had his name on it. He handed it to Nurse Jenny who read it quickly—much quicker than Dean could read, that was for sure—and gave it back. Dean wrapped it around Sammy, making sure he was warm and comfortable before he faced Nurse Jenny again.

“Well, Sammy’s Brother. How about we take care of you. Do you know where your mom or dad are?”

Dean nodded, then shook his head.

“Are they here, in the hospital?”

Dean shook his head again.

“Do they know where you are?”

Yes.

“Did they leave you here?”

Yes.

“Are you sure? You didn’t accidentally wander off? I won’t be mad, promise.”

Dean shook his head, frowning. He would never do that. Maybe he would before, but not now. Why would he ever wander off away from Daddy when he needed to take care of Sammy?

“Well,” Nurse Jenny said, standing up. “How about I hand you over to Officer Steve and we can get things situated?”

She reached for Sammy, but Dean held tight. Daddy said to go with Nurse Jenny, but he didn’t say anything about them holding Sammy. No one was allowed to hold Sammy except for Daddy and Dean. Sammy didn’t like it when anyone else tried to pick him up. Really, it was easier if they let Dean take him.

Nurse Jenny didn’t seem to understand though because she pried Dean’s arms from the babbling toddler and lifted him up into her arms. As soon as Sammy realized what was happening, he let out a wail and threw his keys to the floor, squirming any way he could to get out of the unfamiliar arms that held him. The abrupt change caught Nurse Jenny off guard and she nearly dropped Sammy only to catch him again. Sammy had turned all the way around to face Dean and was reaching for him desperately, tears coursing down his chubby face and loud screams coming from his throat.

Dean pulled on Nurse Jenny’s shirt and she looked down at him, nearly panicking at having to juggle the frenzied infant. Dean held his arms up at her, asking silently for his Sammy.

She didn’t really have a choice. The baby was proving to be more adept in his struggles than she was in restraining him. Dean seemed to be the only calm one in this situation. Officer Steve was trying to help, but he was even more clueless than she was and was nearly ready to call for backup just to help with the screaming kid. They had already attracted the attention of the entire room. Even those who had previously been polite enough to at least avert their eyes while they dealt with the situation were staring.

Nurse Jenny told Dean to sit back down in the chair before she passed him his brother. She didn’t think he would be able to hold the baby any better than she had, but almost as soon as Sammy was in Dean’s arms, he settled down.

She watched Dean shush the crying baby until he was cooing a chant of _deeeedeeeedeeedeee_ and giggling as his brother played with him. Less than a minute later, it was as if nothing had happened. The baby was babbling in his brother’s arms and Dean was watching Nurse Jenny with a somewhat smug smile that she hadn’t thought possible on a four year old.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but Officer Steve eventually ended up with an armful of Dean who clung tightly to his younger brother. Luckily, they were small enough that it wasn’t much of a problem to hold them both in his arms. Sammy seemed content with being held as long as Dean was there also so Dean didn’t see a problem with it.

Nurse Jenny put the blanket and Sammy’s keys in the diaper bad and flung it over her shoulder, following right behind Officer Steve to the children’s ward where they could better accommodate the two boys. A social worker would arrive to sort things out later.

Sammy liked the children’s ward much better than the waiting room. Dean could tell. They had a whole roomful of toys, even ones for babies like Sammy. Nurse Jenny tried to get Dean to play—first with blocks, then with action figures—but he was content just to sit in the corner, watching Sammy crawling around the small toy room. When Sammy saw that Dean wasn’t playing, he made it his mission to bring him toys. It became a game between the two of them.

Sammy would push a toy across the floor to Dean’s corner. Dean would act surprised and happy and tickle his brother until he smacked him away, only to repeat it again with every toy he could push across the room. Nurse Jenny watched them the whole time. Even after another nurse came in, Dean clung to Nurse Jenny—he liked her and the other nurse smelled funny—until she promised to stay. She seemed alright with sitting in a corner and helping Sammy bring Dean toys whenever he tried to move something too heavy for him. Dean was happy she was there, especially when Sammy started getting fussy.

Dean rose from his corner and tugged on her shirt to get her attention.

She looked down at him, curious. “What is it, Dee?” she asked. After hearing Sammy call him that over and over, she’d caught on.

Dean tapped his wrist twice, a question on his face.

“The time?”

He nodded.

She looked at the analog clock on the wall. “It’s almost twelve-thirty,” she said. “Why? You have something you have to do?” She was trying to be funny, but Dean nodded seriously.

He looked around for the diaper bag and found it sitting on a table on the other side of the small room. He stood on the chair to see into it and grabbed an empty bottle and the formula. He handed the bottle to Nurse Jenny and held up eight fingers.

“Eight ounces?” she asked, unsure of what he was trying to tell her.

Dean nodded excitedly, happy that she understood him so easily.

She left the room and was back again in just under a minute with a filled bottle. “Okay,” she said. “How do I do this?” She picked up the can of formula and attempted to read the directions on the back.

Dean was impatient. He pulled on her shirt again and pointed to the bottle and formula in turn. She looked skeptical, but handed them both to Dean.

Dean set them on the floor and doled out the necessary scoops of formula before capping the bottle and shaking it as hard as he could. When it was done, he put the top back on the can of formula and set it in the diaper bag. He grabbed the burp rag and scrambled over to Sammy to give him his bottle. Sammy took it happily, leaving the toys on the floor, and drank it down quickly. Dean cleaned him up, checked his diaper—still clean—and went to sit back in his corner to watch Sammy play.

Nurse Jenny took all of this in, shocked. Four year old Dee was more capable of taking care of his infant brother than most adults she knew. It was a product of lots and lots of practice. She didn’t know who their mother and father were, but she hated them with a passion in that moment. When the social worker arrived, she would definitely have a few things to say about these boys. The youngest seemed well adjusted and happy, but the Eldest…  He was the saddest kid she’d ever seen—and working in the hospital, she’d seen plenty of sad children. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He didn’t seem to want to do anything that didn’t center around his brother. The whole situation was just horrible. She didn’t want to know what could make a child behave this way. He was too little to be carrying the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders.

She did, however, know one way to lessen his burden. It had probably been a while since he, himself, had eaten. “Hey, Dee,” she called. The young boy looked up at her with trusting eyes and she wondered, not for the first time, what she’d done to deserve it. “It’s lunch time. Are you hungry?”

She watched as he thought about it, curious as to what was running through his mind. Even with simple questions, he took his time to think before he answered. Was he trying to decipher what she was asking, she wondered, or was he thinking of how to communicate nonverbally with her? Either way, he spent a lot of time in his head and it was hell trying to coax him out. It seemed as if only Sammy had the power to do that.

Dean nodded his head, glancing at Sammy again to check on him.

“Well, what do you want? The kitchen can make pretty much anything. Hot dogs, pizza, mac and cheese. Your choice.”

Dean thought again and held up his hand with three fingers. It was getting easier and easier for her to understand him.

“Mac and cheese it is. I’ll be back. Okay, Dee?”

Dean nodded his understanding and turned his attention back to his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've made it to chapter two. If I've held your attention thus far, hopefully future chapters would interest you as well. Feedback, Readers, is a wonderful thing. It brings the biggest smiles to my face and makes me want to rush to finish future installments (wink wink). Comment, bookmark, and read on!


	3. Orphans

“His name’s Dean, but everyone calls him ‘Dee,’” Sister Theresa said. “He really is the most obedient little boy who’s ever passed through these doors if you can believe it. Sad story though. I pray for that child.”

The man next to her was shocked at her choice of words. The boy seemed healthy enough. Six years old with the cutest—his wife could not keep from saying—freckles peppering his nose. He was small and quiet enough that they hadn’t noticed him right away, but once they had… well. He could be sure his wife was already picking a color scheme for his bedroom. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm even though he was just as excited. It was like they’d just found the one member to complete their family. It wasn’t in his looks, though no one would be able to tell right away that he was adopted, but more so in his actions. Right now, he was leaning over a crying little girl offering her a crayon. She batted it away, but he just shrugged and moved on, not perturbed in the least at her reaction. Dee was giving, sweet, and, according to the Sister, obedient. For Sister Theresa to make such a comment, something had to have happened that had her worried.

His wife also seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him. “What happened?” she asked, mimicking his thoughts.

“About two years ago, he watched his mother perish in a house fire,” the sister stated. “After that, well, we’re not so sure. He was abandoned in a hospital a couple of months after along with his infant brother and hasn’t spoken a word since they found him. The father left a note with them, but it didn’t say much but for their names and the concern that Dee might have a few behavioral problems.”

“Behavioral problems?” the man wondered.

The Sister smiled. “He sees a counselor every two weeks, but we haven’t had a problem with him. He listens when you talk to him and he’ll respond when prompted, though he still doesn’t speak. It’s easy enough to understand him once you spend enough time to get to know him. The biggest concern I have is that he’s too independent. He has trouble relying on others for help.”

Both the man and his wife were confused at that statement. Dee couldn’t be more than six years old.

The sister picked up on their skepticism and explained. “About three weeks ago, I had to find a way to get him down from the top of the fridge at two in the morning. Dee was trying to unlock the upper cabinet where we keep the medicine because his brother was sick and it was time for another dose.

“He’s smart and resourceful,” she continued, “and, despite his age, he knows how to take care of himself and his brother. I don’t have any doubts in my mind that, if I hadn’t come down for the same reason as him, Dee would have found the bottle and given Sammy the correct dose of medicine at the right time. As I said, it’s something we’ve had to work on. He’s slowly learning to ask for help instead of taking it upon himself, but it’s been a slow process.”

He could see how that might be a problem, though it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle.

“He has a brother here?” his wife asked. He’d heard also, but somehow hadn’t managed to realize how that might be a problem.

“Yes. Sammy is two, going on three. He walks and talks and is nearly potty trained. If you really are interested in taking Dee,” Sister Theresa cautioned, “I want you to be aware that they are both a packaged deal. The last time we tried to separate Dee from his brother… it didn’t go smoothly.”

Seeing as Sister Theresa probably wasn’t supposed to be going this in depth about Dee’s history, the man was surprised that she was hesitant to explain exactly what had happened.

“What happened?” he asked. If they were going to take Dee without his brother, he wanted to be well informed as to what they should expect.

“He threw a tantrum,” the Sister started. “The first we’d ever seen and he’d been with us for a year and a half by this point. We’d never heard a peep from him before, thought he was a mute, but he screamed at the top of his lungs for hours, bit, hit, kicked anyone who came near him. When he began hitting his head against the floor, we had to restrain him. It wasn’t our first rodeo, but no one was as shocked as I was that he’d be so forceful. It took three days, and a promise that we wouldn’t take him away, to separate him from his brother.”

“But you said there were no behavioral problems,” his wife intoned.

“None. He’s a very well behaved boy. We’ve separated them for doctors appointments and Dee is in school now—first grade. He’s perfectly alright with that. He’s smart enough to understand, though, that adoption is permanent and that he’d be separated from his brother indefinitely. That, he won’t tolerate. Despite his obedience, he _is_ rather stubborn.” The Sister chuckled, instantly relieving the tension that had built during their conversation. “He’s very protective of Sammy.”

Just then a loud yell from another room had Dee up and running.

“As a matter of fact…” Sister Theresa said, following the boy out of the room.

The man and his wife followed, curious as to what was happening. Dee had looked panicked when he’d heard the yell and he was much faster than they thought he’d be.

The Sister led them two doors down the hall, into the kitchen, where they heard another Sister speaking quietly to Dee.

“He just won’t eat it. I’ve been trying for nearly ten minutes now, but I keep telling him that he isn’t getting down to play until he finishes his broccoli.”

They walked in to see Dee nodding at the Sister, urging her to continue.

“He’s only yelling because he’s being stubborn.”

Dee held up two fingers.

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “All of it.”

Dee seemed to think about it for a moment before nodding.

“Thank you.”

Dee’s mouth quirked into a smile for a moment, but when he turned toward the child in the high chair who had to be his brother—Sammy, Sister Theresa had called him—his expression was stern.

Sammy paid strict attention to his brother, everyone else in the room forgotten.

Dee shook his head slowly and pointed to the broccoli.

Sammy frowned.

The man worried that the youngest wouldn’t speak either, but the thought flitted away when the youngest opened his mouth.

“Don’t wanna,” Sammy complained.

Dee crossed his arms and stared straight at him, unflinching. He looked meaningfully at the food and back to Sammy.

“It’s funny. Don’t _like_ it.”

He shrugged his shoulders, pointed at Sammy’s mouth then the food, and crossed his arms again.

Sammy started crying and kicking his legs, throwing a fit, but it didn’t seem to phase Dee. He just turned back to the Sister and pointed to the top of the fridge. The Sister seemed confused for a moment before realizing what he meant. She grabbed the candy jar from the top and opened it.

Sammy stopped crying, immediately interested in the candy the Sister was offering Dee. Dee chose a red lollipop and opened it. He turned back to Sammy, not eating it., just keeping it in sight.

“Wan it,” Sammy said.

He reached for the candy but Dee pulled it away and shook his head. He pointed to his mouth and to the broccoli on the plate, then ate the lollipop.

Sammy seemed to get on board with that. The broccoli was gone in under a minute. When he finished, Sammy wiped his mouth on his arm and asked, “Canny please?”

Dee shook his head, still sucking in his lollipop.

“You said.” Sammy pouted.

Dee touched his eye, shook his head, and pointed to the candy jar which sat on the fridge. The man could decipher it easily. _Criers don’t get candy_.

“No fair!”

Dee just shrugged and pointed to the door.

Sammy seemed to perk up at that, the candy situation nearly forgotten. The Sister let him down from his high chair and the two year old ran—waddled really—down the hall and into the room they’d come from. Dee turned back to the Sister and pointed alternatively to the high chair and the candy.

“You know how it works, Dee. He doesn’t have enough stars for a candy.”

Dee nodded. He took the lollipop out of his mouth and handed it back to the Sister.

“What’s this?”

Dee pointed to the high chair and the candy again, but it meant something different than the last time somehow. Dee shook his head and shrugged. The Sister seemed to understand. 

“Take it,” she said, holding it out to him. “You’ve earned it.”

Dee thought about it, but when he held out his hand, it wasn’t to take the lollipop. The man could read the next motions easily. _Keep it. None for Sammy, none for me. Can I play now?_

“Go ahead. I’ll put this in the fridge and you and Sammy can share it after dinner, okay?”

Dee smiled at her again and raced back down the hall to find his brother.

“So sweet,” his wife said and he had to agree.

“As I said,” Sister Theresa said, “the boys are a package deal. You were only looking to adopt the one, though. Correct?”

He looked at his wife and found the same thought he had projected on his face as well. “Actually,” he said. “We may just have room for two.”

Her blinding smile was enough that he knew he’d said just the right thing. They could give these boys a good home. Dee may have a few problems, especially considering what he’d been through—and despite all they’d heard, he was sure there was much more to the story—but he knew they could deal with it. Family didn’t come without its problems and they would take the time to work through them.

“Give it a little bit of time,” Sister Theresa said. “Make sure this is what you want. There’s no need to be hasty here, especially as I said: this is meant to be permanent. You _will_ be their parents once the adoption goes through, for better or for worse.”

The thought gave the man reservations about the adoption, but it was far from enough to have him backing out.

“If you’d like, I can schedule an interview with the boys, have you all get to know each other better?”

The man smiled, relieved. “That would be… just great.”

His wife nodded. “And in the meantime, we’ll think about it. They seem like good boys, especially Dee. I can already see him as part of the family.”

“Both of them,” he added. “Sammy’s a little rascal, but he looks playful. Should get along perfectly well with my sister’s kids.” He chuckled fondly.

“Good,” Sister Theresa said. “My office is this way. I can give you some paperwork regarding the process and what to expect, as well as schedule the interview.”

Inside, Sister Theresa was beaming. They weren’t the first couple to spot Dee and express an interest, but they were the first to seriously consider taking the Winchester brothers. After hearing about Dee’s brother or his inability to speak or his history, they all seemed to gravitate toward the more well adjusted children. Everyone wanted a child, but no one wanted to start off with a broken one.

This couple, though. They seemed like genuinely good people. They hadn’t had much success on the baby front and adoption had seemed like the next best option. They said they didn’t care about gender or age—“We’ll just _know_ ,” the wife said—and had asked if they could see all of the children.

Yes, they seemed like a good family and if anyone deserved two good parents who were willing to help them through the tough times, it was Dee. What that boy had been through, was still going through, would have been enough to break even an adult. Sister Theresa was sure she wouldn’t have been able to handle it had she been put in his shoes, not that he wasn’t without his scars. Still… a good family would do well for him. The Winchester boys deserved it. She just prayed her instincts were right and the couple would come back, ready to welcome Dee and Sammy into their family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters and counting. I'm interested in seeing how the Winchesters grow up. I'm missing the middle chunk right now so the next 2-3 chapters haven't been written yet. When they're done, I'll put them up. Think three days or so before they're finished. Happy holidays, Readers! Read on!


	4. Home

_John Winchester had nearly broken even, Death noted. Without the burden of raising his boys, the hunter had saved dozens more people than he would have any other way, though he’d inadvertently caused more death than he would have otherwise as well. It was merely the calm before the storm though. Death was sure that his luck wouldn’t last very long. Even now, Winchester was growing weary. His nomadic lifestyle was taking its toll. Moving from hunt to hunt wasn’t helping much either. He would be less and less successful, more souls taken by his reapers than should be taken._

_It didn’t matter so much about John, though. His choices didn’t mean much in the grand scheme, except in how they related to his sons._

_The Winchester brothers, though. They were a different set of horses._

_Their destinies were nearly set in stone, never mind that they hadn’t grown up as they were meant to. Azazel wouldn’t leave them alone. There was too much riding on the boys for the demon to be satisfied with allowing them to lead their lives uninterrupted._

_Dean and Samuel Winchester—the Righteous Man and the Tainted One, the Two Brothers, the True Vessels—they were to be known throughout history as the ones who ended it all. There was no escaping it._

_Well, Death admonished, there were still many decisions to be made that would lead to that point in time. There was a manuscript buried somewhere that allowed them to continue on, avoiding Azazel and angels and the apocalypse. But, sadly, it wasn’t a very likely course of action. In the case of the Winchester brothers, free will was merely an illusion._

_True, they had choices, but even in the state they were in now, they were still as self-sacrificing as ever. It would be their—and everyone else’s—downfall. They would be responsible for destroying the planet, killing billions of people in the process. It was only a matter of time really._

_Death watched the Winchester brothers grow up in their cookie cutter home._

_It wouldn’t be long before they were thrust into the life they had always been meant to lead, but for now, Death was content to sit back and watch the lives they were living._

_When he knew that they were destined to an eternity of unmerited hell, it burdened him to no end. It was uncharted territory for him, knowing that they were to lead these lives, wanting to help, but not being able to. Death didn’t normally allow himself to become involved in trifling human affairs, but this time he had and he didn’t like it._

_Death would not intervene, he vowed. He was a neutral party. He would, however, take his delight where he could find it. If that meant watching nearly twenty-two years of their mundane family life, he would do it, if only so he could remind himself, once it was all over, that the brothers had been happy once._

 

__________

 

Sammy took off running almost as soon as the front door was open. Dean chased after him, too unsure about the house to let him roam alone. He saw the living room as nothing more than a passing glance before darting into the kitchen, barely keeping Sammy in his sights. The kitchen was smaller than with the Sisters, but it looked a lot easier for him to climb the counters in this one. Dean decided that he liked it less this way. If it was easier for him to climb the counters then that meant Sammy would be able to climb them easier also.

Before he could elaborate more on that thought, Sammy was off again, looking at the downstairs bathroom and running through the small hallway back into the living room where Tammy and Peter—mom and dad, he corrected himself—where _mom and dad_ were waiting at the front door. Both of them were smiling. A lot. Dean didn't think he'd ever seen two people smile so much and they'd been doing it all day.

Sammy darted up the stairs next, peeking behind each of the five doors on the second floor—three bedrooms, a closet, and a restroom—but only settling in the doorway of one. If the bunk beds were any indication, it was their room.

A little of the tension Sammy had been holding leaked right out of him. At least they were sharing. They weren't going to be alone at night. That was good. Sometimes, Sammy knew, Dee had bad dreams. They made him cry at night and when that happened, he liked it for Sammy to cuddle with him. Dee liked humming to him on bad dream nights and Sam liked it too. If they didn't have the same room then who would Dee hum to after he cried?

But that didn't matter now. Sammy and Dee had the same room so there were no more problems.

"I want the up," Sammy said, pointing to the top bunk.

Dee smiled, but shook his head, no.

"Pleeeeesase?" Sammy asked. He knew that when he really wanted something, Dee would give it to him if he asked nice.

Dee shook his head again.

"Why?" Sammy knew that Dee wouldn't tell him no unless it meant something bad, like the once when Dee said no to touching the bee and it bit him.

Dee waited before he answered like he sometimes did if it was hard. When it was just him and Sammy, Dee would talk to him if it got too hard to not talk. Their new Mommy and Daddy were there though and Dee didn't talk when there were other people. Maybe 'cause it was Mommy and Daddy, Dee would talk this time.

Dee didn't though. He found the movements to tell Sammy what he wanted to say and, like he always did, Sammy understood even better than if Dee used words to speak. Sammy thought it was easier to understand Dee. Sometimes when people talked to him, they used too big words and said things that didn’t make sense. When Dee talked with not words, there wasn’t anything that Sammy couldn’t understand. He knew what _things_ were, he just didn’t know what the _words_ were.

Dee _wanted_ the top bunk. Really _wanted_ something. It made Sammy smile and nod and he laid his blanket—not blankie, never blankie because that’s what babies called their blankets and Sammy was _not_ a baby—on his new bed. The down was Sammy’s new bed and the up was Dee’s because Dee _wanted_ it. Sammy liked when Dee wanted stuff ‘cause then he could pretend he was the Big Brother and give things to Dee when he asked. It was fun and he knew why Dee always gave Sammy stuff when he wanted it.

“The up’s Dee’s and the down’s mine,” he said proudly to his new Mommy and Daddy.

He never had a Mommy and Daddy before but the Sisters he had said that he would like them. Him and Dee would get a new home and a new Mommy and Daddy and a new room and lots of new things. Sammy was scared when his Sisters told him, but then his Brother told him that he was going too and he could also take his blanket so not _everything_ was going to be new, just some stuff.

He liked it though. His Mommy and Daddy were a nice new. He didn’t know if his new house was a nice new or not, but he liked his room and he could share it with Dee too so that was good.

“Well,” his Mommy said. “I know you boys are anxious to see the rest of the house, but I’m getting kind of hungry. How about lunch?”

Sammy beamed and nodded. Dee tried to make him eat oatmeal for breakfast, but his tummy was scared at all the new things and he didn’t want to eat it. Now he was real hungry. He looked over at Dee who nodded too. That meant that Dee was hungry. Sammy knew Dee didn’t eat anything either, but that was ‘cause he had crying bad dreams last night and Dee didn’t like to eat breakfast after crying bad dreams.

“Yeah,” Sammy said. “I want lunch.”

He saw Dee’s look that meant _manners, Sammy_ and he corrected himself.

“I mean I want lunch, _please_.”

His Daddy laughed at that and Sammy didn’t know why but it was a nice laugh, not like the ones that made fun. It was like the ones Dee did sometimes when he thought Sammy said something funny. He liked it.

“What do you boys want? Today’s special so we can go out or I can make something—whatever you want.”

Sammy looked at Dee. Sammy didn’t ever pick food before. Sometimes, he could pick a candy or a toy, but not food. They always ate what everyone ate. This was something else new. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

Dee looked just as confused as him. That wasn’t good. Dee was _never_ confused ‘cause Dee was smart and he was bigger and that meant that he was the one who explained stuff to Sammy when Sammy was confused. Dee _couldn’t_ be confused because then who would explain stuff to him?

“Hey, it’s okay,” his Daddy said, kneeling down in front of him. He looked at Dee and him back and forth, talking to both of them. “What do you both like to eat? I’m sure there’s something.”

“Mac ‘n cheese,” Sammy said resolutely. He loved mac ‘n cheese. He looked at Dee who nodded, but Sammy knew Dee didn’t like mac ‘n cheese. “No,” he said. “Dee don’t like it. I know! Pie. Dee likes pie.”

“That’s not really for lunch,” his Mommy said. “How about some real food?”

“But Dee likes pie,” Sammy pouted. “Pie _is_ real and it’s good for lunch.”

His brother touched his shoulder and Sammy looked at him. Dee shook his head, no. Tears sprang to Sammy’s eyes. Dee _wanted_ pie. He always wanted pie. But then Dee smiled and made a sandwich of his hands and Sammy knew what he wanted.

“Is hamburgers real food for lunch?”

“Hamburgers sound good, Tamm?” his Daddy asked his Mommy.

“Sounds great. I think we have everything here if you want to explore a little. We need to go later for you to pick out your bedding, but for now do you want to stay in or go out to eat?”

Sammy looked at his brother, but Dee was waiting to see what he wanted. Sammy was looking at for the same thing.

This time, Dee was the one who answered. He thought about it and said to stay. That was good. Maybe if Sammy had good manners, after lunch Dee would let him play on his bed. It was higher than his old bed and it looked fun.

“I’ll make lunch here then,” his Mommy said. “Why don’t you take the boys outside. I’m sure they’re going to want to see the backyard.”

Sammy and Dee followed their Daddy out the back door from the kitchen that Sammy didn’t see before. Now that he knew where it was, he wouldn’t forget it. Outside was fun. When it rained there were puddles and they made splashes. His Sisters didn’t like it, but him and Dee liked to play in the water.

“Does there get puddles here?” Sammy asked.

“Sometimes,” his Daddy said. “When it rains. Do you like puddles?”

Sammy nodded. “I like to jump in ‘em.”

“They’re lots of fun. How about you, Dee?” his Daddy asked.  “Do you like puddles?”

Dee thought about it. He nodded, smiling a little.

“Dee likes the small ones ‘cause he can see the bottom easy,” Sammy said, running out into the yard. He didn’t notice Dee still standing next to their Daddy until he turned and had to look around for a missing Brother. Dee usually followed real close to him.

“Wanna play ball?” their Daddy asked. “There’s a soccer ball in the yard.”

Dee shook his head at the same time as Sammy yelled, “yeah!”

It only took two minutes of their Daddy trying to teach Sammy how to kick the ball for Dee to step in.

By the time their new Mommy told them that hamburgers were ready, Dee was learning from his Daddy how to kick the ball on his knees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I have so much trouble with nice, happy scenes. Half of the 'happy' scenes I write, are actually really sad and kind of depressing. It took me DAYS to write the second half of this chapter because I wanted to put something in that was HAPPY, dammit. Not sure if I succeeded or not, but I guess you'll be the judge of that, Readers. Leave me a comment. Let me know what you think :)
> 
> P.S. Any ideas for more 'happy' scenes? I can definitely use some help here. I have the whole depressing plot line all laid out, but the nice tidbits of how their lives are better now? not so much. 
> 
> Give me a few more days to write the next chapter. I'm going to need the time, trust me. Read on!


	5. Promises to Keep

Dr. Blake Spencer sat at his desk, a bit more nervous than he though he’d be. He was about to see his first patient since he’d replaced Dr. Harold Brody. Dr. Brody, he was told, had been fired after he was arrested for tax evasion, something that no one seemed surprised over. Apparently, Dr. Brody wasn’t a very well-liked man.

Dr. Spencer started his new job three days ago. It had taken him that long to sort through the cases and files in his predecessor’s office. Organization was also something that Dr. Spencer and Dr. Brody didn’t have in common. The more he learned about the man, the more he felt the need to apologize for him, if only because he was now the doctor’s replacement.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, Spencer opened the case file on his desk one more time, going over Dr. Brody’s notes before his patient was to arrive. He’d always liked children—the only thing, he was sure, that he had in common with Dr. Brody—and wanted to help. The file in front of him was a tough one for his first case, but he was willing to put in the effort. Besides, he thought, things could only get better after him, right?

Spencer looked at the light switch drilled into his desk. Flipping it up would turn on the light in the waiting room, telling the patient that the office was empty and that it was alright to come in. It allowed for discretion, he’d been told, and it made the transition easier to have the entrance and exit on different sides of the room. That was all well and good, but Spencer just couldn’t bring himself to flip a light switch to call the child into his office. It made him think of how one might summon a dog. It was too inhuman.

Spencer stood up from his desk and opened the door to the waiting room. Only four people were present: Tamara, Peter, Dean, and Samuel Clark.

Spencer would have been able to tell right away who his patient was even if he hadn’t practically memorized the file. Eight year old Dean Clark—previously Dean Winchester, though those files were sealed—had been a ward of the state from ages four to six. He and his younger brother, Samuel, were adopted by Tamara and Peter Clark two years ago this coming February.

None of this information helped him much, except to give him a little background. What really mattered was Dean’s inability to adapt to situations, engage in activity, trust others, or come to rely on anyone but himself. According to Tamara and Peter, with whom he’d met the previous day before he’d agreed to take on Dean as a patient, even after two years with him, Dean was stubborn to the thought that he was the only one who could care for his brother.

If anything in his file was true, there were a lot of deep-seated issues for them to plow through, none of which Dr. Brody had even begun to breach.

Tamara and Peter didn’t notice Dr. Spencer enter the room, but Dean did. The child looked him over, taking in his glasses, slacks, and sweater vest with keen eyes. He glanced at his hands, looking to see what the doctor was holding, suspicion in his eyes. When it was revealed to be a pen, he moved on, the tightness in his eyes lessoning minutely, but not leaving his face completely. He looked at the bulge of his wallet for a moment before figuring out what it was, then took in the shine of his new loafers and nodded slightly before turning his attention back to his brother, resolutely ignoring the doctor.

Spencer had been standing in the doorway mere seconds while Dean profiled him, digesting everything from hair to shoes and deeming the doctor safe. It was a clear sign of abuse that he’d been able to do it. Not many children had need for a skill like that. Dean was smart, intelligent for his age, hyperaware of his surroundings and, as he could see just from the brief glance, extremely devoted to his brother. It was unhealthy, but it was something that had allowed his mind to keep from splintering off into different pieces while tragedy after tragedy befell him.

Now, though, was a time for healing. Dean was no longer in whatever situation had changed him from a loving and carefree child to this withdrawn and deeply depressed miniature adult. There were going to be some big changes taking place in the coming months. He knew they needed to happen slowly, but there would be changes.

“Dean,” he said.

The boy in question looked up at him again, this time with a slight curiosity. It was no wonder others didn’t have much of a problem with a silent Dean. His thoughts and emotions were written plainly on his face. With just a few motions, Spencer was sure he’d be able to interpret anything Dean needed.

The boy’s parents looked up also. Though their expressions were more guarded, he thought he could read relief in them. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Come on. It’s show time,” Spencer joked, waving at the open doorway.

Dean stood immediately, no hesitation in his step as he walked into the office, though there was one fleeting glance at his brother who sat on the floor, playing with action figures.

The youngest, Spencer noted, seemed to be well adjusted.

Dr. Spencer sat in one of two chairs across the room from his desk and adjusted his glasses. He looked up at his patient. Dean stood a foot away from the opposite chair, glancing at it in a question.

Spencer smiled. “Go ahead, Dean. I don’t bite.”

Dean took a seat in the too large chair with a blank expression.

Spencer had no doubt that Dean would choose to spend the entire session ignoring him and staring off into space.

“Sammy looked happy, didn’t he?”

Dean seemed to perk up at that. He nodded hesitantly when he realized Spencer wanted a real answer.

“Does he like toys like that? I’m sure he got a lot of them for Christmas.”

Dean shrugged, then nodded, answering both the question and the statement easily.

“Do you like toys, Dean?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t think you would.”

Dean was losing interest fast.

“I think you like sports. Do you play?”

Dean nodded eagerly—well, eagerly for Dean. If it was anyone else, Spencer would have called it a reserved nod. Still, it was progress.

“Do you have fun when you play?”

A shrug. As much of an affirmation as he was going to get.

“Thought you might. Do you play at school?”

No.

“Home?”

Yes.

“With Sammy?”

No. Sammy doesn’t like sports.

“That’s too bad. I bet he likes watching you though.”

Yes.

“I bet Sammy really likes it when he can watch you have fun. I know you like to watch Sammy have fun.”

No answer.

On and on the session went. Anything more than one word responses seemed to be beyond Dean at the moment, though Spencer knew that he understood perfectly well. They went through nearly everything in his file, but didn’t get much more information than what Dr. Brody and Mr. and Mrs. Clark had provided. He had one last card to play though and he was sure it would pan out. 

“I’ll make a deal with you, Dean. Interested?” the doctor asked at the end of their session.

Dean looked at him skeptically—as if he’d looked at the doctor any other way since meeting him—but nodded.

“You saw the smile on Sammy’s face while he was playing in the waiting room.” It wasn’t a question. Spencer knew Dean had caught it. He was too tuned into his brother not to have caught it. “Sometime before our next meeting—it doesn’t have to be today or even tomorrow, just sometime in the next few days—I want you to watch Sam’s face when he watches you play. Here’s the deal. If Sammy’s smile is bigger when he watches you play than it was when he was playing today, then you have to talk to me for our next session. Real talk, no nodding.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

Spencer leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. “I know you want to make Sammy happy,” he said. “But I promise you, Dean, what Sammy needs is for you to be happy too. I’m telling you, when you’re happy, Sammy’s happy. Do we have a deal?”

Dean’s eyes turned contemplative. He raised his chin in a challenge. _And if you lose?_ his expression said.

The kid was smart.

“If I lose the bet, then both of us can be silent for the next meeting. We can just sit quietly for the entire hour until it’s time for you to go. No questions, no nothing.”

The challenge in his expression disappeared and Dean looked like he was seriously considering taking the deal. When the boy nodded, Spencer found himself smiling.

“Excellent. I need you to keep your word,” he said earnestly. “Just like I’ll keep mine. It’s how we know we can trust each other. Anything I promise you is a real promise. It means that, even if I don’t want to do it, I will. Can you keep your promises to me, Dean?”

Dean nodded once, his expression more serious than the doctor had ever seen it. Spencer believed him.

“Good. I’ve made you two promises today.”

Dean looked confused.

“I just promised that, if I lost the bet, our next session would be spent in silence, but I made you one more before that. Do you remember?”

Dean shook his head.

“I promised you that what Sammy needs to be happy is for you to be happy. He needs for you to be happy, Dean.”

Dean thought about it for a moment.

“It was very nice meeting you,” Spencer said, standing up. “I’m looking forward to talking more with you.” He knelt down to Dean’s eyelevel and held out his hand for a shake.

Dean looked at the hand distrustfully for a moment, but hesitantly took it, shaking it up and down.

“I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Dean hopped off of the chair and walked out the exit door. Spencer knew that his presence was already forgotten. Dean had looked pensive there at the end, as if he was seriously considering the truth of what the doctor was saying. That, Spencer new, was an important step in establishing trust.

It wasn’t until two weeks later that he discovered the extent of Dean’s integrity.

Dr. Spencer stood in the doorway of the waiting room, comfortable now that he’d had a chance to adapt to his new workspace. “Dean,” he called.

The boy in question looked up at him, dread and fear in his eyes. He stood slowly and hesitated. Dean looked at his brother for a while, his muscles tense and trembling, and steeled himself to something. When he looked back at Spencer, the doctor saw Dean’s resolve take the place of his fear, though his hands continued to shake.

“I promised,” Dean said. It was more of a cracked whisper than anything.

Sammy and the Clarks both looked at the boy in shock. Spencer was willing to bet that it was the first time either of the adults had heard his voice. A slow smile spread across the mother’s face as she looked at the doctor. The father was floundering openly at hearing what he’d obviously never thought possible. What surprised him the most though was Sam’s reaction. After the initial surprise of hearing his brother speak openly, he flung his arms around Dean and whispered something so low that Spencer couldn’t hear it.

“I promised,” Dean said again. Whether he was just restating the previous or answering his brother, he didn’t know.

The doctor smiled. “So did I. Come on,” he said, waving his arm toward the open doorway. “Let’s talk.”

Dean nodded, but then caught himself. He smiled sheepishly at the slip. “Okay,” he croaked. No more nodding, he’d promised. Real talk this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this during a layover, in a tiny airport that looks like it can barely house a single plane, in the middle of nowhere, like twenty minutes ago. Thank you Specific Reader (you know who you are) for suggesting I write this scene. Unfortunately, what came out didn't do my imagination justice. There are so many words I can use to convey my thoughts, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm not always the best at using them. Chapter 6 coming soon. So far, I have twelve chapters written. I'm probably going to stop between 15-20? The question mark stays until I'm finished completely with the fic. Until then, Fearless Readers, read on!


	6. Happy Birthday!

“…happy birthday dear Saaaaaaammmmmmyyyyyy, happy birthday to youuuuu!”

Sammy blew out the eight candles on his birthday cake and everyone cheered and clapped. His mom took a picture like she always did. The next day, after all the party mess had been cleaned up, her and Sammy were going to go to the store like they always did and get the pictures developed. Then, like always, he would write his name and his age on the back and put it in his birthday book. There would be just enough room below the picture for him to write one sentence: his ‘nine year old goal’ just like last year, except one year older.

His eight year old goal was to learn how to ride a bike. Dean helped him with that last summer and now he could ride without training wheels so he couldn’t write that again. This year… he didn’t know what his goal should be.

“Whatcha thinkin about, Sammy?” Abby asked from right next to him. He didn’t even realize she was there.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking about what I wanna do before I’m nine.”

“Oh.”

“Who wants cake?” Sammy’s mom called and the short conversation was over. The hands of a dozen children flew up almost immediately, Sammy’s included. His cut of cake was devoured in seconds, his presents were opened in a flurry of activity, and he and his friends ran around the yard, playing freeze tag.

“I don’t know how you do it, Tammy. I’d go crazy with so many kids in my house.”

Tammy laughed. “I was going to just have Sammy invite a few friends for laser tag or mini golf or something, but he insisted on having a barbeque instead. He said he didn’t want to leave anyone out.”

“That’s so sweet. He really takes after his brother, doesn’t he?”

“I swear, they have a complex,” Tammy said, rolling her eyes. “Did I ever tell you about the time Sammy found the squirrel?”

“The one that he thought was choking?”

“The very same. The look on his face when he brought it to Dean… but it was nothing compared to Dean trying to give it the Heimlich,” she said in between chortles.

“I’m surprised the squirrel survived.”

“Honest to God, Sarah, I think those boys saved it’s life. It kept coming back, you know.”

“Really.”

Tammy nodded.

“Mom?” Sammy called.

Tammy turned her attention to him.

“Where’s Dean?”

“I don’t know,” she said, peering around the yard, looking for her eldest.

“I think I saw him go inside,” Sarah said.

“I look for him,” Tammy told Sammy. “Go play with your friends.”

Sammy nodded and took off running, trying to unfreeze one of his friends, but getting touched himself.

“You mind keeping an eye on the crumb snatchers?” Tammy asked Sarah.

“No problemo.”

“And the men. I swear, give Peter meat and some tongs and he goes nuts.”

Sarah chuckled.

“Just make sure he doesn’t set fire to the yard,” she sighed.

“Will do.”

She walked inside, glancing through the kitchen before making her way upstairs. She’d noticed Dean acting a little withdrawn earlier, but she didn’t know what to make of it. It had taken a while—years, actually—to get to a point where Dean could open up to her. It was a slow going process, but it was getting easier for him. All she needed to do now was ask… after she found him.

Tammy walked upstairs, peeking into the bathroom before making her way to Dean’s room. He used to share a room with Sammy, but Peter—with Spencer’s approval—had insisted on giving each of them their own spaces. They needed to separate themselves a bit, especially Dean. He only used it for two things though: to sleep and to escape. Tammy guessed this was a case of the latter.

“Dean?” she called softly as she opened his door. She saw him lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He glanced at her when she came closer, but didn’t say a word before he went back to studying the ceiling.

Tammy sighed. She sat at the head of his bed and ran her fingers through his hair, waiting. Dean would know what she wanted.

“What happened?” she asked him

Dean didn’t answer.

“Come on, Dean.”

“Nothing happened,” he said. “Sammy just turned eight.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t need any help with stuff when I was eight. What if Sammy doesn’t need help either?”

They both sat in silence for a moment, thinking about what he’d said. Tammy could see how that would be a problem in Dean’s mind. He basically lived to help his brother. Taking that away?

“What if he doesn’t need me anymore?” Dean asked.

Tammy didn’t know what to say. “Sammy’s different from you,” she started slowly. “I think he’ll still need his big brother for a while yet.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, not sounding convinced. “But he’s not going to need me forever. He’s going to grow up and what then?”

“I don’t know,” Tammy said, still stroking his hair. “Would that be so bad?”

She watched the wheels turn in his head before he nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It would be.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, matching his tone. “Because when that day comes and Sammy doesn’t need you to teach him things anymore, that means that you’ve taught him everything he needs to know.”

Dean nodded, but continued staring up at the ceiling.

“Sammy was looking for you,” she said. “I think he wanted you to play tag with him.”

“Yeah.” Dean rolled out of bed and trotted downstairs, still looking conflicted.

“That’s some good advice, you know,” Peter said from the doorway. She hadn’t even noticed him come up. “I’ll make sure to use it when we send the boys off to college.”

Tammy smiled and walked over to him. “Nope,” she said playfully. “I laid claim, it’s mine.”

“And you’re mine, so that makes it mine also.” Peter leaned down and pecked her cheek. “Come on, Sarah’s talking Jeff’s ear off downstairs. I’m sure he could use a break.”

“Yeah, she does that,” Tammy chuckled, following him.

The backyard was just as she’d left it. Sarah was, in fact, talking Jeff’s ear off. Tammy smiled at the tortured look on the man’s face before stepping in with a save. “Sarah,” she called.

She watched Sarah excuse herself and make her way over. Jeff’s relief obviously amused Peter if the hearty chuckle was any indication. The guys went back to the grill, chatting about who knows what and Sarah came over to do the same. Most of the conversation was easily tuned out while Tammy watched the kids play, but she caught a few snippets here and there, preferring to nod and smile than to actually contribute to the conversation.

“…Dean?”

“What?” Tammy asked.

Maybe she hadn’t been playing as close attention as she thought she’d been. She caught Sarah’s bemused expression and knew she’d been caught.

Tammy smiled sheepishly. Sarah grinned and she knew she was forgiven.

“I said, what happened with Dean? You guys were inside for a while.”

“Yeah, we had a talk. Dean’s having some trouble. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Sarah took the hint and changed topics of conversation. She may speak for endless lengths of time, and about anything and everything she could think of, but she knew when a subject wasn’t ready to be broached.

“Well, Sammy looks happy. There was a nice turnout to this party. What did you do, invite the whole class?”

“We did actually.”

“No way!”

Tammy nodded. “I told you, Sammy didn’t want to leave anyone out.”

“That’s just… wow.”

“Yeah, Peter didn’t think it was such a good idea either.” She chuckled. “But we’re making it work.”

Tammy watched the children play, happy to see the smile on Dean’s face as he showed Sammy how to slide further in the grass so he could unfreeze his friends faster. The lesson was interrupted by a rampaging child, obviously ‘it,’ trying to freeze them. Dean turned to block him while Sammy took off running straight at one of his frozen friends. Dean was tagged, but took it good-naturedly. He parted his legs and froze that way, keeping track of Sammy.

Sammy ran as fast as his legs could propel him. He dipped down nearly parallel to the ground, sliding quickly under a frozen teammate. He was back on his feet and running before his friend even had time to comprehend that he was now free to move.

Sammy went back for Dean next, sliding easily between his legs. When Sammy stood, they opted for a high five, Dean’s smile stretched wide across his face.

“Hey, Dean!” his dad called from the grill. “Wanna help with the burgers? I’ll teach you how to flip them.”

Dean ruffled Sammy’s hair and trotted over to help with the food.

Dean gone, Sammy showed his friends to slide like Dean taught him. He tucked his arms close to his body and showed them how to twist while they were down so they could stand faster. He explained when the best time to duck down was and told them to make sure no one was in the way first so no one got hurt.

While he was explaining, Sammy suddenly knew what his nine year old goal was. Dean was always teaching him everything. Always. Sammy couldn’t think of anything he knew that Dean didn’t teach him. Dean even taught him his ABCs and how to read before he ever started school. He taught him how to ride his bike, how to make his bed, how to fix his toy cars when their wheels came off. Whenever Sammy had a problem, Dean taught him how to fix it.

That night, after his birthday picture was developed and placed in his birthday book, after he’d scribbled his name and age on the back, after he glued it inside, Sammy picked out a pen from the drawer and wrote four words: Teach something to Dean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the two Specific Readers (again, you know who you are) for the idea of writing the boys' birthdays. It was originally supposed to be Dean's, but I had trouble imagining him enjoying his own party so I switched it to Sam's. I have to say that I'm not as disappointed in this chapter as I thought I was going to be because of the switch, but let me know what you think, Fearless Readers. Smiles are just a comment away :) 
> 
> Chapter seven will be up as soon as it's written. After the next chapter, the rest is pretty much finished and ready to post so updates will come more quickly. Read on!


	7. Prom Night

"What time are you picking her up?"

"Four."

"And you already met her parents?"

"Yep."

"They liked you?"

"Yes, Ma."

"Is Jamie going?"

"We're picking up him and Rachael on the way."

"Can your car fit that many people?"

"There's only the four of us."

"Really? I thought there were more.”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"I don't like you driving that car at night. It's not safe."

"It's safer than half of the other cars on the road. I fixed it up myself."

"That's what makes me worry."

"Mom."

"I know, I know. Jack went over it and deemed it safe. Doesn't mean I'm not going to worry about you. Especially since you’ll be out so late. Just wear your seatbelt in case you get into an accident. And tell Jamie and his date also. You know he won’t unless you ask. And make sure you get pictures."

"Mom."

" I know, you're a teenager and don't care about that stuff, but if you don't, you'll regret it in the future. Plus, I want to see how handsome you are with your date. What's her name again? Amber. I think. Either way, I want pictures."

"Mom."

"And I know how these things go. I was young once too, you know. Just please promise me that you won't do anything you shouldn't. If you're drinking, don't drive and you know that you don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, right?"

"Mom! I'll be fine. Dad already covered most of that stuff and it's just a dance. Not a big deal."

"Don't let Amber hear you say that. It's the prom! Of course it's a big deal. Just... be safe. Okay?"

"Okay. I have to have Amber home before one so I'll be home after that."

"You have your cell phone?"

"Yep."

"Wallet? Keys? Do you have money for dinner?"

"Mom."

"Sorry."

"It'll be fine."

"I know. And have fun. This night only happens once."

"I will."

"Not too much fun."

"Mom."

"I love you. You’ll be home before two?"

"You're going to be one of those clichéd parents who waits up on the couch, aren't you?"

"No.”

“Good.”

“Your dad is."

"Of course. I'll be home by two. And try to get him to sleep at a decent time. He has work in the morning."

"I will."

"Oh, and Sam needs to get picked up at the library by six. He's finishing his history essay."

"Okay. Six o'clock. Pick up Sam from the library."

"Because at seven, he needs to get dropped off at Hector's. They got a new computer and he's supposed to help set it up for them."

"Okay."

"And he has to be home by nine because that's when grandma said she's be home to talk to him about coming out for the summer. So make sure he calls her."

"Dean."

"After nine, but before ten because she needs to wake up early for some swim aerobics thing. And when they figure out a time, write a note so he can put it in his planner. Oh, and don't forget to check his backpack to make sure he has everything he needs. He sometimes forgets to take the right homework in."

"Dean."

"And remind him that he needs to take his textbooks in tomorrow to return them. If he doesn't, we have to pay the late fee."

"Dean! We'll be fine for the night. Just have fun. I have things covered here."

"Are you sure?"

"Dean."

"Sorry."

"Just have a good time. Do you have the corsage?"

"Yeah. Right here."

"Good. I’ll see you in the morning."

"I'll try not to wake Dad when I come home."

"No, wake him up and send him to bed. You know how rough the couch is on his back."

"Old man."

"Hey! I'm not that old!"

"Whatever you say, honey. Didn’t hear you come in."

"It’s ‘cause I’m still so spry. Quit your snickering, Dee. You're going to be old someday. Back problems and all."

"Not gonna happen."

"Of course he won’t, Peter. Oh, to be young."

"Have fun at the dance, bud. Tell your girl we said hi."

"I will. Bye Dad. Ma."

"Oh, no you don't. You're not leaving without a hug."

"Ma!"

"Who's laughing now, mama’s boy?"

“Can it, Peter. It’s a big night for him.”

“I know, I know. Love you, Dee. Have a good time, alright?”

“I will. Love you. And try to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m serious, Dad.”

“I know you are. Go. You’re gonna be late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... I decided to try something different with this chapter: dialogue only. It was easy for me to follow since I was the one who wrote it, but let me know what you think, Readers. Was it too confusing? If so, I'll probably go and fill in the blanks before I publish the next chapter. Read on!


	8. Walk Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, remember that whole 'I'll post Wednesday' thing? Total lie. Two more chapters just for you, Fearless Readers.

Two floors, three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, one kitchen, one living room, and a garage later, Dean still couldn’t find his phone. He knew he had it yesterday during his session with Spencer, but after that? He didn’t know. He _thought_  he’d put it back in his pocket. That didn’t always mean much.

“You find it?” his mom called down from upstairs.

“No,” he yelled back. “I think I might have left it at Spencer’s.”

“I’ll give him a call,” she said, coming into view over the banister. “You and Sammy need to get out of here. You’re going to be late enough as it is.”

“It’s Sam,” Sam corrected. He came from behind her and flew down the stairs toward Dean.

Dean tried ruffling his hair, but the kid was quick. He dodged the attempt easily and Dean marveled at how much his brother had shot up in the last year. At thirteen, he’d still been a runt that looked all of ten, but now at fourteen, he was nearly as tall as Dean and he was growing into his gangly limbs.

“Whatever you say, Sammy,” Dean half-mocked. He grabbed the keys from the tray by the front door, tossed his backpack over his shoulder, and left, calling “bye, Ma!” behind him.

Sam rolled his eyes and followed his brother. They went to the same school now so Dean usually gave him a ride. It gave Sam big time brownie points with the girls at school that he knew Dean—Dean who played every sport known to man and still had time to flirt with any girl in sight; yeah, that Dean—and that Dean seemed to know him, too. No one believed they were really brothers. Everyone knew they were adopted, and they weren’t ashamed of it, but they didn’t look similar enough for anyone to believe they were blood brothers. They knew, though. Sam had sent in for a DNA test years ago and, sure enough, they were related.

It sucked, in his opinion, constantly being compared to Dean. Then again, if there was ever anyone he would want to be compared with, it was his brother, not that he was going to tell Dean that. He was haughty enough without Sam fueling his ego. If anything, Sam wanted to knock him down a peg.

“Kinda quiet there, Sammy,” Dean said smirking. “Whatcha thinking about?”

“The usual. World domination and whatnot,” he quipped absentmindedly, not paying much attention to anything but the trees passing by in a blur.

“Bit young, don’t you think?”

Sam just shrugged.

He had bigger things on his mind than making small talk with his brother. Finals were next week and he still had papers to finish for history and English. Both were due in two days, not that he hadn’t been researching for weeks already, but it wasn’t _his_ paper that he was worried about. Jake Fuller was expecting both essays from Sam today. He knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but he was even more stubborn than Dean when he believed in something enough. It wasn’t Sam’s fault Jake thought he could push him into finishing them for him. Sam was still scrawny despite his height and Jake had forty more pounds of muscle on him at the very least, but Sam wasn’t going to back down from this. If Dean couldn’t muscle his way to an A+ paper from Sam, Jake sure as hell couldn’t.

Still, he wasn’t looking for the retaliation that was obviously going to take place in a few hours time. Dean could take him easily. He’d been fighting for years. Tae Kwon Do and Krav Maga trophies—Sam didn’t even know how Dean had convinced his parents to let him join the last team—took up so much shelf space at one point that they’d had to store them in a box in the garage. Football, lacrosse, wrestling, swim, track, and baseball were added over the years. Dean’s grades never strayed lower than a C, but they hardly rose above it either.

Sam was more of a mathletes kind of guy.

After realizing Dean’s aptitude for martial arts, they tried to get him to join, but he was much more content with his nose in a book. Besides, he bruised easily.

So yeah. Sam could ask Dean for help. Hell, all he’d really need to do was tell Dean the situation and there would be no doubt as to who would be sporting the bruises the next day. But Sam wouldn’t do that.

It wasn’t pride, he told himself. It was his problem and he needed to deal with it. Dean had been taking care of him his entire life, never stopped for any reason. It was time that Sam took care of his own problems instead of always relying of Dean to solve them. Dean had enough on his plate with college applications and working at Ralph’s Auto Body Shop in his spare time. Between school, sports, and his job—which, admittedly, he was only able to squeeze in for a few hours a week—Dean didn’t have the time to look after Sam.

Dean did, though, more than Sam would ever realize. _Take care of Sammy_ had become more than just an order to him, spoken by a man he couldn’t even put a face to. It became the core of everything he did. Spencer had done a lot for him over the years, but Dean wouldn’t let go of his protectiveness. Sammy was _his brother_ and he would walk through burning coals before he let the kid get hurt. Dean knew it wasn’t healthy, but he didn’t happen to really care much about that. Sammy was alright so why did anything else matter?

He’d received letters from Florida State, Alabama, and Stanford, but he’d already decided to turn them down. He needed to stay as close to Chicago as he could. His mom could definitely use the help around. Their dad had been deployed for three months already and he wasn’t expected home for a while. Even then, he’d said he would probably only have a couple of months shore leave before he was deployed again.

Sammy was having trouble in school. His mom needed help around the house. There were countless other reasons he used to convince himself, but those were the main two. He _couldn’t_ leave. There were too many things that could happen to them with him gone. If Sammy hadn’t steadfastly refused to learn to defend himself, Dean would have been at least a little okay with leaving, but the runt never even made it past the basic self-defense classes.

So, no. Dean couldn’t leave. Sammy needed him for a little while longer—at least until he finished high school. Dean could easily work full-time at the shop. Fixing up cars was more than a hobby to him. There was this guy who passed through town every few months or so who would stop by so Dean could tune his car. He’d chat nonstop about everything and nothing, talking about the things he’d seen— _the world’s biggest ball of twine, twice!—_ in his travels. Had a nice car too. Dean could appreciate a classic, even if it was a little beaten up.

It became his dream car. More than that, it became a promise to himself. Spencer was always telling him that he needed to have a goal that was separate from his family, from his brother. ‘Keep Sammy safe’ was the core of everything he did, but there would come a time, Spencer said, when Sammy wouldn’t need him anymore and Dean needed to prepare for when that happened.

It hadn’t happened yet, but Dean could feel the time crunch. Sammy didn’t want to rely on him anymore, he was becoming independent. Dean wouldn’t do anything to interrupt that.

So Dean did as Spencer suggested: he set a goal.

It was more of a dream really. He didn’t want the life his parents offered, despite their insistence of the contrary. He didn’t want the college life and the corporate job and the trophy wife. What he wanted was something completely different, probably unrealistic in their eyes.

It was like a scene in his head. He pulled it from the deep recesses of his mind during his darkest days, which there were plenty of in the fall when the nightmares increased. It was a simple dream, but one that Spencer had tried to encourage up to a certain point. He worried that Dean wanted to run, but Dean assured him that it was more than that. Sometimes he pictured his mom or dad or Sammy in the passenger seat, but it was the first time he had something that was for wasn’t for them. This dream was his.

Dean pulled into the parking lot quickly, turning off the Tahoe and pulling the scene to the forefront of his mind for a brief moment before Sammy noticed him stalling. For a split second, everything disappeared but him but an open stretch of two-lane asphalt, and his baby—a black, four door ’67 Chevy Impala. There wasn’t a destination in mind, just the _keep moving, don’t stop_ pull of the road.

He pushed it back and waved his arms in front of Sammy who seemed unusually quiet this morning. Dean knew something was wrong, but it had been a while since Sammy would confide in him about these sorts of things.

“Sammy, hey. Earth to Sammy!” Dean shook his shoulder.

“What?”

“We’re here.” Dean nodded out the windshield and Sammy looked, shocked at the parked cars around him.

Dean watched Sammy unhook his belt and take off without so much as a glance behind him. Dean sighed and left, pocketing his keys and heading toward the locker room for his first class. From there it was English, then chemistry. The history teacher stopped him on the way out of his fourth period and congratulated him on the team’s big win.

It was during lunch that that he felt a tap on his shoulder. Normally, Derek stayed clear of Dean and the jocks, but when Dean turned around, there he was.

“What’s up Derek?”

“Uh, just wanted to let you know that Fuller has it out for Sam.”

Dean’s expression turned to stone and when he asked, “What happened?” shivers crawled down Derek’s spine.

“Fuller told Sam to finish his term papers, but he didn’t, and now he’s pissed ‘cause he’s going to fail this semester and won’t be able to go out for lacrosse in the spring and Jenny, Mike’s sister, told my sister, Meagan, that she heard Fuller tell Robinson that Sam was ‘dead meat.’” Derek finished his short rant, shivering again at Dean’s expression.

“Have you seen Fuller around?” Dean asked.

Derek shook his head. “No. Sam’s in geography though. He had lunch in the rotation before you so he’s good for now.”

“Thanks, Derek.”

It was a dismissal if Derek had ever heard one. He was perfectly content to end the conversation there and leave. Dean was cool most of the time—totally an older brother to envy in Derek’s eyes—but he was intense sometimes, especially when it came to Sam. He was more overprotective than his mother, and that was saying something.

Dean wasn’t even paying attention to Derek’s hasty retreat. He scanned the lunch room quickly, not catching Fuller anywhere. His rotation today should have coincided with Dean’s, but he hadn’t seen him all day. Dean asked around a bit, but no one could find the guy. The lunch bell rang and Dean walked to his Latin class, keeping an eye out for Fuller on the way.  There was no sign of him through it or his last period algebra 2.

What he saw going back to his car, on the other hand, had him stone-faced sober. Sammy stood at the passenger door of the Tahoe, leaning as nonchalantly as possible despite the peppered bruises and swollen eye. A butterfly bandage held together a cut on his forehead, but Dean could see the blood drips on his light t-shirt.

“Dean, it’s fine,” Sam started at his brother’s expression, but Dean wasn’t even listening. Sam watched as he walked calmly around the car, sat in the driver’s seat, and started the engine. Sam sighed and got in before Dean left without him. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Dean drove Sam home, neither one of them bothering with a half-hearted attempt at conversation. If it wasn’t for Dean’s knuckles clenched white over the steering wheel, Sam wouldn’t have known anything was wrong. Dean’s face was passive, almost bored really. He knew Dean, though, so he knew that Dean was furious. If anything, Sam was happy that Dean had merely opted to drive home instead of seeking out Fuller. He flinched at the mental image of what Dean could do to the jock. It would make Sam’s beating seem like child’s play.

 Dean pulled into the driveway, turning off the engine. Instead of driving to the garage like he normally did on Wednesdays, Dean followed Sam into the house. He didn’t wait for their mother’s shocked gasp and the myriad of questions that were sure to follow. He bolted instead to the upstairs bathroom, locking himself inside. His hands automatically found the small bottle of pills he kept in the back of the cabinet for occasions such as these. It didn’t happen often, but it was better in recent years after he’d developed a sense of self-control.

His anger now, as Spencer would be telling him, was hot. Hot anger was self-destructive and could hurt everyone around him, no matter who it was.

_Walk away, walk away, walk away._

It didn’t matter that he was miles now from the prick who’d put his hands on Sammy. He kept up the chant in his head, repeating it over and over as he filled a glass of water and took the pills. Too late, he knew. It had taken almost twenty minutes to make it home and it would be another fifteen before they kicked in. He could feel it creeping up on him. It started as a tensing of his neck as shivers crawled down his back. His eyes were dry and his mouth even more so despite the glass of water he just had. His neck twitched abruptly, causing a loud _pop_ as the joint moved unexpectedly.

He unlocked the door—another of Spencer’s rules, drilled repeatedly into his head—just in case he blacked out and someone needed to get to him. Dean sat on the toilet seat, trying his best to control his breathing. It was harder than it should be for him to perform an action he normally wasn’t even conscious of. Large breaths in and out were making his head spin, but anything less wouldn’t give him the air he needed. His lungs were dying, his chest hurt, his vision blurred and he panicked because of it.

 _It’s normal. The deep—_ walk away— _breathing is sending too much oxygen to—_ walk away my fault— _my head and it’s making me lightheaded. I_ know _this. Calm down—_ walk my fault away walk away— _breathe normal. You can_ do _this!­_ —my fault.

He couldn’t. Dean’s lungs expanded faster and faster, out of his control now despite his training. He was hyperventilating and he knew it, but he was powerless to stop it. The more he tried to control it, the worse it got. After a while, his breathing evened out on its own as he fell, barely catching himself on his arms and lowering himself to the ground. 


	9. Nightmare

_Two hundred seventy-four._

_Death watched and, as he always did, he counted. He viewed the world sans two hundred seventy-four souls who should have been walking the earth. This was merely the average. If he wanted to complicate things, he would have the numbers in three columns: those were dead who should have been alive, those who alive who should have been dead, and then the average between the two._

_In all actuality, Death didn’t particularly care who owned the souls. It was the soul itself that was important, which is why he counted by the average. His reapers had taken two-hundred seventy-four more souls than they would have if things had gone according to plan._

_It was nice, though, seeing the Winchesters in this life. For one who was nearly as old as time itself, he looked forward to meeting those who would make their mark on the universe. The Winchester brothers were two such people, though they seemed rather normal now. Death wondered what was so special about these two boys that the fate of this entire planet depended on their choices almost exclusively._

_Even now, the eldest was unconscious while his brother was in the kitchen having the abrasions on his face cleansed. They did not seem up to the challenges that awaited them. They were not hunters. They knew nothing of the supernatural, thanks to their father. They were not prepared as thoroughly as they should have been. The future would surely be as bleak as the scripts claimed. Their decisions would even reach as far as to affect Death himself._

_They were truly remarkable souls._

_Death gripped his cane tighter, holding himself back. Both brothers were injured—injured in different ways, but injured nonetheless—and neither was prepared for what was to come, but this was not Death’s fight. He’d made a vow and he would stick by it, even if everything in him wanted nothing more than to reach through the sands of time and change their fate. There was only one good ending to this story, and, unfortunately for the brothers, those decisions had long since passed, leaving them with nothing to look forward to but what would be a burning wasteland of their home._

 

 

 

_MOMMY!!!_

_“Dean,” she whispers._

_How did she get there? She never did this before. Stop playing Mommy, it’s not funny. Get down from there. That’s what she says when I’m not s’posed to be on the counter. Get down from there. But Mommy’s not listening. She can’t listen like I can ‘cause the fire’s real loud and it’s too close. It’s gonna burn. I know that ‘cause of when Tommy and me roasted marshmallows outside in his fire pit with his dad. Fire burns and Mommy’s too close and she’s going to burn too. And burns_ hurt _. But Mommy’s already hurt bad like when I fell offa my bike when the training wheels came off only there’s lots more red than when I was hurt. The red’s dripping lots and I can see it drip on Sammy._

_Get down from there, Mommy._

_Mommy doesn’t listen but I can hear her whispering “Dean,” so maybe she can hear me too._

_I can’t talk ‘cause, when I look at Mommy, her hair is already getting burned by the fire. I want to giggle, but cry too ‘cause the fire looks like her hair now, but I know it hurts bad and she’s scared. I didn’t know Mommy could be scared. I can be scared though and I am ‘cause my heart’s pounding—_ thuthump, thuthump, thuthump— _real hard and it’s hard to breathe now._

_So I run. I run to where it’s safe, where it’s always safe. I stand in the door to Daddy’s room ‘cause I hafta see even if I’m scared. Four is big, but I close my eyes anyway.  And when I look Daddy’s really close to me like magic. He was in Sammy’s room and now he isn’t. Maybe Daddy can abracadabra Mommy offa the roof and then we can stop her hurt._

_“Daddy!” I yell to tell him to help, but he starts talking fast._

_“Take your brother outside as fast as you can,” he says and he gives me Sammy. There’s drips on his mouth that I know is Mommy’s red and Sammy’s crying real loud so I can’t say anything either. “Don’t look back!”_

_I can’t run with Sammy. He’s heavy and moving and I’m scared and Mommy’s on the roof and she’s real hurt, but Daddy doesn’t care ‘cause he keeps yelling, telling me to go, now. So I do what I know I should have done before. I listen. I’m always s’posed to listen to Daddy, specially when it’s a emergency. If I listened before, Mommy woulda got down from the roof and her red would be inside like it’s s’posed to be and Sammy wouldn’t be crying loud and I wouldn’t hafta listen to Daddy call Mommy’s other name over and over sounding real scared like Mommy did._

_Is Daddy on the roof now? I hope not ‘cause there’s lots of fire there and he could get hurt too._

_I make it outside quick quick and I’m safe in the grass. “It’s okay, Sammy,” I tell him and then I’m flying in the air when Daddy picks us up. The windows make a crash and I think that I’m going to be on fire ‘cause I can feel it now and it’s real hot, but the fire stays inside. Daddy takes me and Sammy ‘cross the street, but I watch the door, waiting for Mommy…_

When Dean regained consciousness, it was with a sudden start. He was completely awake before even a second had passed and was on his feet a few moments later. There was no moment of disorientation, no dulling of his anger, no lessoning of the thoughts pounding into his head— _walk away, my fault, protect Sammy, walk away, walk away, Sammy, walk away, my fault, protect Sammy, my, walk away, fault, away, Sammy_.

Dean’s anger was still hot, destructive, bad. He needed to move.

Dean bolted out of the house, happy that he didn’t pass anyone on his way out. He headed straight for the tree line that bordered their backyard and didn’t stop until he was far enough away that no one could hear him.

He yelled, screamed into the thick trees, giving the pent up frustration an outlet. It wasn’t enough. He grabbed a fallen branch and swung it rhythmically against the heavy trunk of the neatest tree, using all of his excess energy. The branch broke before he did and, when it was nothing more than a pile of large splinters, Dean grabbed another and repeated the process.

He was there for an hour before he felt his resolve wane. He was panting and sweating and tired beyond belief. The tree that bore the brunt of his attacks stood unharmed before him and it was that sight that caused Dean to drop the branch.

He was still angry alright, but not at Fuller anymore. The guy was an idiot—a strong idiot—but an idiot nonetheless. Principal Morrigan would suspend or expel him and he would be taken off of the school sports teams indefinitely, especially after the coaches caught wind of what he’d done to Sammy.

Sam may not have been part of the team, but he was family. He came to every game, cheered them all on, even helped tutor a few of Dean’s teammates when their grades were less than adequate. He was a good kid and teachers and coaches alike couldn’t help but agree that Dean’s protectiveness was contagious.

Fuller didn’t warrant any of Dean’s anger. He was old news, stricken from his mind even before Dean had collapsed in the bathroom.

Dean, on the other hand, should have done more to protect Sammy. He’d been given more opportunities than he should have had to help him. Sam had obviously known this was coming with the way he’d been acting that morning, then there was Derek’s talk. He’d had plenty of time that day to stop Fuller before he’d gotten to Sam. It was Dean’s failure.

_Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Now, Dean, go!_

_Take care of Sammy._

_Protect your brother._

It had been drilled into his head over and over. Protect Sammy. It was his only job and he went and screwed it all up. This wasn’t the first time either. It seemed as if his life was a constant state of disappointment. Spencer, his parents, even Sam, they were always bent on telling him that it wasn’t his responsibility, but it _was_ and why couldn’t they see that? Sammy was _his_ _brother_.

Dean heard the heavy footsteps even before he saw who made them. As Sam came into view, Dean was grateful at least that he wasn’t lost in a rage like he’d been just minutes before. Had Sam waited until he was done before approaching? Or was it just good timing? Dean didn’t know and for his own sake, he hoped Sam wouldn’t tell him.

“Ma’s looking for you,” Sam said.

Dean nodded. He figured that she would be. By now, one of his coaches would have called to inform her of his no show.

“He was expelled you know.”

Dean knew.

“Amy got the vice principal before Jake could get in more than a few hits. He’s not even allowed to come back to get his stuff. They’re sending everything home with Ralph.”

Ralph Fuller, Jake’s older brother. The senior wasn’t as big of an ass, though they definitely had similar traits. Dean was happy the guy wouldn’t be back. While he wasn’t angry with Jake, he probably wouldn’t have been able to keep from punching the guy if given the opportunity.

“Sorry, Dee,” Sam said, shooting his puppy dog eyes at his brother.

What the hell did the kid have to be sorry for? _Letting_ himself get beat up? Dean rolled his eyes and flung his arm over Sammy’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Sam said. “Ma called Spencer. I’m sure you’re in for an earful.”

Dean groaned, but followed Sam anyway back to the house. It was a long walk, longer than he remembered when he was running before, but it was easier this time without the blinding rage taking hold of him.

He didn’t kid himself. Dean was still angry. This time, though, it wasn’t an all-consuming, destructive anger. It was a cold, calculating anger that he’d learned to live with his entire life. He was angry, but it was under his tight control and not a single tendril would escape him unless he wanted it to. With this anger, there was no chance of it hurting anyone that Dean didn’t want it to hurt. The problem now was that there was no outlet for it, no way to let it go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on including these two chapters in the story. I actually cut them out and pasted them in a seperate doc. labeled: DeletedCH_DeathCounted1, but then my friend (yes, Kristi, it's you this time) said that I should reconsider cutting them. I did as she asked and decided what the hell, can't hurt. The next chapter will still be posted tomorrow. Don't forget to review, Readers. I love reading them, especially the predictions on what you all think is going to happen. Read on!


	10. Accepted

Sam didn't know what to do. He sat on his bed and just… stopped. It wasn't that he wasn't happy. He was ecstatic, wanted to jump up sporting the '80s air fist, rush downstairs and twirl his mom around, call Dean up on the phone and laugh with him about things going right for once.

What he did was another matter entirely: he thought.

He was  _seventeen_  for crying out loud. He didn't know how to live out on his own. And what about Dean? He'd be pissed, Sam knew. Well, he'd be happy for Sam first, guilty for some reason no one would be able to understand second, and  _then_  he'd be pissed that he couldn't follow Sam to California—halfway across the country—to protect him. It was something his parents—well, just his mom now—hoped Dean would grow out of, but if anything, it was worse now that he was out of the house.

Sam didn't mind too much that Dean was so overprotective. It had always been that way, but now he had to leave Dean behind. Could he do it?

And what about his mom? Since Dad, she hadn't been doing too well. It was hard on all of them, truth be told, but she'd taken it the hardest. And then Dean had left. Sure, he was back now, but it wasn't easy with just the two of them in the house. And now he was going to leave? Mom would be home alone. Dean would visit, but he was an adult now, thinking about moving in with Amber. They'd been getting pretty serious. What would Mom do? Dad gone, Dean gone, Sam gone.

Sam remembered what it was like when Dean had lost everyone—and that was when he still had Sam. What would it do to his mom to lose everyone?

Sam took some semblance of comfort in knowing that it would be nearly impossible to pay to go to the college of his choice. Being stuck at the University of Illinois was hardly that worst thing that could happen to him. At least that way, his tuition would be paid by the military. They already had money problems as it was. College would just be another debt to add to the growing pile. Not only that, but he could come home on the weekends and Dean and his mom wouldn't worry about him being so far away.

It seemed like the better option.

But why did the idea leave such a sour taste in his mouth?

It was because more than he wanted to appease his brother and his mom, he wanted to prove that he could do more than the bare minimum. His brother had been fine with dropping out of school after Dad died.

 _I don't need a degree, Sammy,_  he'd said—pissed their mom off, that was for sure. But he'd just smirked and ruffled his hair and said,  _you'll understand when you're older, squirt,_  even though Sam was taller than he was at this point. And Sam understood, even then, that in Dean's eyes he needed to be there for his family. Dean would be enough for Mom, Sam thought. Him leaving probably wouldn't even be that big of a deal, right?

He sighed and hung his head in his hands.

It wasn't supposed to be this hard. It definitely hadn't been this hard for Dean, not that he'd gone as far away as California. Still, it was a few hours south and it was different not having him around. But all he could remember of Dean going off to college was a short stack of acceptance letters, their parents bragging to everyone within shouting distance, and a quick argument about him choosing the University of Illinois over some of the more prestigious schools.

_They offered you a sports scholarship, Dean! You don't have to worry about tuition as long as you keep your grades up._

_It's not about that! I don't want to play professional ball. I don't want to play in college, period! If I stay in-state, I don't have to._

There were other arguments, but their mom and dad didn't really have much of a say. If Dean chose to go one place or another, they would have supported him— _did_ support him, in fact. He was stubborn and only Sam knew that he'd picked the place closest to home so he could look out for his family. It wasn't something he was ever going to tell his mom, but Sam suspected that she knew.

The point was, it wasn't this hard when Dean went to school. Everyone, even Sam, had been excited about it. Dean was an adult, moving out of the house, getting a degree, becoming a productive member of society. Sure, there'd been a bit of apprehension about Dean going off to live on his own, but a quick promise to visit every other weekend cleared that right up. And he'd been fine.

Sam could do the same. He could just as easily go to the same university as Dean did. He could get his degree and find a career from there. It wasn't what he really wanted, but he could live with it. It was better this way. Really.

"Sam! Dinner!"

Sam tossed the acceptance letter in the top drawer of his desk and slammed it shut, steeling himself to his future. It was harder than he thought it'd be.

He walked downstairs, the smell of what had to be meatloaf increasing with every step. Say what you will about his mom's cooking, no one made better meatloaf. Entering the dining room, he was met with three faces he didn't expect: Derek, Amber, and…

"Dean? What are you doing here? It's not Tuesday."

"Nope. Just here to celebrate." He flung his arm around the back of Amber's chair and Sam couldn't help the large grin that spread across his face.

"Seriously?" he asked. "You finally asked her? When's the date?"

"Wha –no. It's…" Dean looked chagrined as he caught Amber's gaze.

Sam frowned at the misunderstanding. If it wasn't that, what was it? Was she…? "Are you pregnant?" he asked hesitantly, blushing.

"I better not be," Amber answered easily. "It would totally ruin my five-year plan."

"Then what?"

"You, Sammy," Dean said, slightly angry now that he was going to be in the dog house. "Stanford. You're number one school. Acceptance letter. Ring any bells?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Ma told us. Come on, Sammy, who do you think checks the mail? You can't tell me you didn't expect her not to make a big deal about it." He leaned in and said seriously, "I think she made an apple pie for this." Which was probably the highest compliment in his mind that she could pay to the occasion.

A look Sam couldn't decipher passed across Dean's features. He sat straighter in his chair and his face took on a more familiar confused and worried set. "You okay?" he asked and it meant more than if Derek or Amber or his mom were to ask because Dean almost always knew what was wrong without ever having to ask.

"'M fine," he mumbled. "I just wish she wouldn't make such a big deal about it."

"Of course we're making a big deal. It's  _Stanford_. It's every nerd's wet dream. You've been dreaming about this day for, like, ever."

Sam shrugged and looked away. "I don't really want to go anymore," he lied. "I think I'm going to accept the offer from Illinois."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean shift in his seat. Sam flinched a little at the imagined disappointment he knew he would see on his brother's face if he looked.

Yep. There it was.

Not surprisingly, that look on Dean's face did more to convince Sam that he'd made the wrong choice than anything else. If Dean was disappointed then it was probably a good idea to think more about things before he made his decision. The fact that Dean was taking his statement so seriously said a lot about how wrong Sam was to stay behind.

"It was just an idea," he corrected. "I'm not really sure yet. I mean, I'm still thinking about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, I think, before we merge with canon. I'm not too sure yet, but just I case, I'm posting the warning now:
> 
> *SPOILERS: up to season 3. (Seriously, people, if you're not caught up to there yet, but are reading Spn fan fiction, I can't really be blamed for ruining things for you)


	11. Worried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to post, Fearless Readers. Two chapters today, just for you. The next two will come in three days (Friday) so stay tuned. Drop a line, let me know what you think :) Read on!

Sam woke with a start.

He could feel his heart hammering a mile a minute and it was all he could do to pull in huge lungfuls of air time and time again. He had forgotten the woman beside him until she shifted, turning towards him. Sam didn’t look at her, though he knew she was awake now from the hand rubbing slow circles on his chest. He was grateful for the contact. It grounded him in a way nothing else would.

It took him a minute, but his breathing evened out and his heart rate slowed. All that was left of the nightmare was a slight sheen to his pallor and his memory.

“You want to talk about it?” Jessica asked from beside him.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a nightmare.”

“I noticed.” She rested on her elbow, leaning over him. “Tell me about it.”

Sam hesitated for a moment before speaking. “It was weird,” he said eventually, blushing. “It started off great. You remember Zach’s birthday party?”

She nodded, smiling at the memory.

“Yeah. Well, it started off like that, but right before we ditched everyone for the hot tub, it just cut out. You’re gone and I’m at home—not here; in Chicago—just standing on the lawn. Dean’s off of work for some reason even though it’s too early and he looks worried. He passes me on the way to the front door, doesn’t even say hi. The next thing I know, I’m in my mom’s bedroom and…” he trailed off, remembering.

If Jessica was disappointed that he didn’t finish, she didn’t show it. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.” The slight break in his voice bellied the words.

“You worried about them?” Whatever he’d seen had obviously shaken him up.

“It was just a dream, Jess.”

“And it was probably brought on by the stress of studying so hard for finals. That doesn’t mean you’re not worried.”

“I said I’m fine. Just drop it.”

Jessica leveled her gaze at Sam and he looked up at her sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, but I’m—”

“If you say you’re fine, I’m going to smack you. That’s the third one this week and I know you enough to see when you’re worried. Just call them.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“It’s what phones are _for_.”

“It’s one in the morning, Jess. They’re probably sleeping.”

She scoffed. “No excuses. You haven’t talked to Dean in over a week. He’s probably already planning to break into our house just to make sure you’re okay. He’d more than welcome a call from you, even this late at night.”

“He’s going to freak out is what he’s going to do.”

“Probably,” she amended, “but he’ll also be thrilled that you care enough to worry about them and you know it.”

Sam couldn’t argue with that, try as he might. “He’s probably sleeping,” he said, but he sat up anyway, swinging his legs onto the floor, and reached for the phone.

He dialed the number from memory and, when it picked up three rings later, he sighed in defeat. He’d hoped Dean would have slept through it.

“Hello?” Dean asked, sleepily.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said.

“Sammy?” He was wide awake now. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, earning a scowl from Jessica.

“Are you sure?” Dean asked, worriedly. “It’s one in the morning, man. Wait. Are you drunk?!” he asked incredulously. “It’s Wednesday. Don’t you have class tomorrow?”

Sam sighed. This was why he didn’t want to call. “I’m not drunk, Dean.”

“Then what is it?”

Sam kept silent, not knowing where to start.

“You wouldn’t have called me unless it was important so spit it out already.” Dean was angry.

Sam understood. Dean didn’t like going so long without hearing from him. He probably almost had a heart attack hearing Sam’s voice on the line so late at night.

“Just tell him,” Jessica said from behind him.

“It’s, well, it’s stupid,” Sam said into the phone. He sighed. “How’s Mom doing? Is she okay?”

“Quit changing the subject.” Dean’s voice was hard. “Just tell me what’s going on already.”

“I’m serious,” Sam said. “How is she?”

Dean’s voice was softer when he answered. “She wishes you’d call more, but she’s doing okay. She signed up for some new-age yoga thing last week. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sam chuckled lightly, relieved that their mother seemed to be doing alright. “Yeah. Been having some freaky dreams lately. Jess finally made me call you. I just wanted to make sure you guys are okay.”

“Awww. You worried about us little brother?”

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam could hear Dean’s barely-concealed laughter through the phone.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “How’s Jessica?”

Sam looked at her, smiling. “She’s fine. Finals are next week and then we’re planning on coming out to visit. You still have room to put us up?

“Yeah. Amber cleaned out the guest room. It’s all set. Ma’s looking forward to seeing you guys.”

“Did you talk to her today?” Sam asked.

Sam heard Dean shuffling around before he answered. “No. I called her around nine, but she didn’t answer. Probably sleeping.”

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Sam’s stomach. “If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it? Even if it sounded crazy?”

There was a small pause. “Of course I would, Sammy. You know that.”

“Can you go over and check on Mom, just to make sure she’s okay?”

“Tonight?”

“Please?”

He could hear Dean’s sigh, but when finally spoke, he said, “sure thing. I’ll call you from my cell when I get there.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

 

 

 

 

“It was a heart attack,” Sam told Jessica, flinging the phone onto the bed and running his hands through his hair. “A freaking heart attack!”

“She’s okay, though, that’s the important thing.”

Sam knew that, but he still felt guilty. “If I’d been there—”

“It still would have happened,” she finished. “The only difference is that she would _also_ be disappointed that you weren’t at school.”

“It’s just…”

“I know, Sam, but we’re going there next week and you’ll get to see her then. Dean says she’s fine, _she’s fine_ ,” she said earnestly, looking into his eyes. “You did all you could do from here.”

He _had_ done all he could. He’d asked Dean to check on her in the middle of the night because of a _nightmare_ for Pete’s sake—a nightmare that just so happened to come true. He didn’t know if it was some freaky ESP thing or just luck, but it made him more than a little uneasy that he’d known it was going to happen.

“It was a one in a million thing. Not all of your nightmares are going to start coming true,” Jessica said, reading his mind.

“I know that,” he said, but he really wasn’t sure. He’d had dreams like this before that just seemed so real, implausible as they may be. Would those come true as well?

“Come to sleep,” she said, beckoning him to the bed. “You have class in the morning and you’re useless when you don’t at least get in a few hours. You can check on her in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he said, absentmindedly. He laid in bed next to her, falling asleep without really meaning to. When he woke in the morning from another bout of fitful sleep, he didn’t remember much about his dream except the heat of the flames. 


	12. Pilot

“So, Sammy,” Dean started, biggest shit-eating grin on his face Sam had ever seen.

“It’s Sam,” he corrected uselessly. As if he could have been heard over the noise of the bar around them.

“One seventy-four,” Dean whistled. He slapped Sam on the arm. “I knew you had it in you, man. My brother, the lawyer.”

Sam chuckled at Dean’s enthusiasm and took a swig of his beer.

“Better than a mechanic, I’ll tell you that much,” Dean continued. “Ma’s gonna be proud of you.”

Sam couldn’t deny the implication in Dean’s words. Their mom had been pretty disappointed in Dean when he’d dropped out of college, though he’d opened a garage of his own a couple of years ago. It got pretty good business—everyone knew Dean was the best mechanic around and wouldn’t charge you an arm and a leg for service—but it had still been a disappointment to her that he hadn’t stayed the last two semesters to get a degree. She didn’t even care what degree he’d gotten so long as it was something she could hang on the wall.

Dean didn’t think about it that way though. Tuition wasn’t cheap and Sammy was the brains of the family anyway. Dean always knew what he’d be doing for the rest of his life. Opening the garage when he did was just a few years before he’d planned for it to happen. He didn’t need a degree to keep him happy. That was Sam’s department.

“I know,” Sam said. “Still, I wish you could stay out here, man. Amber keeping you on that short of a leash?”

Dean chuckled. “No shorter than Jessica’s,” he joked, shooting a glance at the girl in question.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Jessica said. She stood up and grabbed her purse, smirking at Dean. “Sam doesn’t need a leash. He comes when I call.”

That was enough to send both brothers into howls of laughter. It was a while before they came down. Dean wiped tears from his eyes, he’d laughed so hard.

“Seriously though,” Sam said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it. When’s your interview?”

“Monday morning. Jess says that, with my scores, I can have my pick of law schools.”

“You thinking of transferring?”

Sam thought about it. He shook his head. “No,” he said, serious now. “There’s just something _right_ about this place. I can’t explain it. It’s like I’m supposed to be here, you know?”

Dean chuckled. “You want to know what I know? I know you must be pretty wasted right now.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

They both smiled at the familiar exchange.

 

 

 

_Death sighed in contentment as he always did when he reaped a familiar soul. He didn’t often make a habit of collecting them himself, but this one was special. Not only had it directly touched both of the Winchesters’ lives, but it was also one of the few that wouldn’t add a tally to either of the lists Death had kept count of. This was a rare soul, one that had a set expiration date, no matter the timeline. It didn’t matter if the supernatural existed or not, if any decisions had been made or not made or ever had any influence in the first place._

_Jessica Moore would always die November 2, 2005. There were no variations of her timeline in this respect. Her death was locked in. Sealed. No changes could be made, not even by Death._

_This was one soul that Death felt the urge to collect himself. Instead of glimpsing the brothers’ lives as he always did—through the veil, so to speak—Death watched literally from the doorway as the youngest Winchester gazed up at what was soon to be the charred remains of his fiancé._

_Jessica opened her mouth to scream and it was in that moment that Death chose to take her soul. There was no need for it to suffer any longer than it had already and she would be dead in moments anyway. Sure enough, just as Samuel erupted into shouts that called his brother from downstairs, Jessica burst into flames._

_He’d gotten what he came for, but Death continued to watch as Dean wrestled his brother outside. It was the second time he had seen this scene. Unlike most, Death did not see the bodies that housed the souls, but rather the individual souls themselves. Dean’s was bright, brighter than most even. It was constantly moving in a flux of overconfidence and self-doubt, protectiveness and loneliness. It was a righteous soul. There was none like it._

_Likewise, Sam’s soul was unique. His shone dark, though with just as much intensity as his brother’s, with a hint of demon blood that made his soul shimmer with repressed anger and a hidden evil. It was tainted from infancy, the trace only growing more potent as the years passed._

_This was the second time Death had seen these two souls interlocked this way. Neither of them had ever shone as they did now, even compared to that first night after the fire that had claimed their mother._

_Dean wrenched his brother away from the flames that were so familiar to him. It was how he had lost everything after all. The thought—_ protect Sammy _—was plain in every facet of his being. Samuel struggled against his brother’s hold to throw himself back into the flames. For the first time, his soul was consumed completely by the demonic stain, so much so that his eyes went black for a fraction of a second before returning to normal. Complete rage took hold of him—anger, hatred, obsession and madness filled him to the core of his being, all tinged with a twisted desperation._

_It was in that moment that Samuel’s rage turned to confusion as he caught a glimpse of Death in the doorway, but his confusion broke the trance and a small glimpse was all he got._

_They were a sight to see, these two brothers._

_To Death, it was as if he was staring at a priceless work of art. Their souls were in contrast, but they fit together so perfectly that there was hardly a space to separate one from the other. They truly were a matched set and that would be their downfall. This was only the beginning, Death knew. Starting now, the real counting began._

_This was supposed to be the event that spurred the two brothers into going on a rampage throughout the country. They would take soul after soul off of Death’s list, leaving them to walk the earth, safe and unharmed. Now, though, John was the only one who was truly there to act as a barrier between night and day. In the coming months, the night would rule._

_Death took Jessica’s soul in his hand. This one did not count toward the tally, but so far, he counted three-hundred six souls that had been added to his list. Death did not want to think about where that number would be by the end of the coming year._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, Readers, the next two chapters will be posted on Friday :)


	13. Can't

“I can’t help you, Sam, if you don’t talk to me.”

Sam didn’t answer. Every once in a while, he’d engage with his brother, but this time, he tuned Dean out. It was too hard to focus on the words when there were so many others he could hear alongside them. Sam allowed himself to be towed in and out of rooms. He ate when told, slept when told, moved when told.

If given the opportunity, though, he would have sat in the corner and withered away. It was better that way. At least if he was alone, the pressure in his mind—not his head because it wasn’t physical, it wasn’t that simple—would have lessened enough for him to sleep. Sleep always allowed him to concentrate better. Well, when he could sleep anyway. It was only when he lacked a decent amount of sleep that he could feel his slow descent into madness.

Dean was there, though, to make sure that that didn’t happen.

The first few months after Jessica’s death had been the hardest. Sam was angry, angry like Dean had never seen. It was terrifying to watch his usually carefree brother change like that. Sam would go off for no reason, yelling and fighting as if for his life, then shaking afterward, confused and agitated. If Sam wasn’t home, he was in a bar—one that he hadn’t been booted from—or at the cemetery, staring at Jess’s gravestone. There wasn’t much of a body left to bury, but the few remains they had went in the ground.

Sam’s mind  deteriorated at such a pace that Dean couldn’t do anything but watch until his brother cooled down. When that happened, it was nearly instantaneous.

Sam yelled, screamed at Dean for bringing him back to Chicago. If there was anyone Sam blamed, it was his brother. No one else had been there to drag Sam from the building and that was what he resented the most, that he’d lived when Jessica died.

So he did what he often did in these situations, he yelled at Dean, attacked him even, but Dean was quick. He hadn’t skimped on his training any, though he hardly had the time between Sammy and the garage, so it would be child’s play to subdue him.

But Sam stopped before he could even get close enough to his brother to hit him. It was sudden and horrible, nothing like it had been before with the dreams. This time, he was awake. Pain erupted in his head, felt like someone reached into his skull and _squeezed_. It was pressure, too much so, and it split him apart. Then came the flashes. Pictures circled through his head rapidly. He was entranced with them. Watching was the only thing that took the pain away.

He watched as the balding man entered his home and set his groceries on the counter. He watched as a shadow passed by the doorway and as the kitchen window slid up on its own. He watched as the man turned and stuck his head outside, looking up to find the cause of the problem. He screamed as the window came down quickly, as it severed the man’s head from his body, as blood splattered across the window and dripped down onto the street below.

Then the pain came back in force, shoving his mind away from the scene and back into his own body. Everything was blinding hot pinpricks in his skull. As suddenly as it came, it was gone, leaving Sam panting and shaking on the floor of his apartment. He didn’t know how he’d gone from standing to sitting so quickly, but he couldn’t even move to right himself.

That was when he’d changed again. This time, directly in front of Dean. Sam allowed himself to be manhandled into the kitchen for a glass of water. Dean asked what had happened, but Sam didn’t answer, didn’t show any sign that he’d even heard Dean speak. It was then that he decided to call an ambulance.

Things happened pretty quickly after that. Despite Dean’s misgivings, Sam was admitted to the Berwyn State Hospital and put under observation in the mental ward. Three doctors and two hospitals later, Sam was diagnosed—and rediagnosed—with some sort of mental breakdown and disorder that neither of them could pronounce.

Sam didn’t care much what happened to him. The dreams that had manifested made his life a living hell. When he wasn’t dreaming of death, he was seeing it while he was awake, alive and in person. At first, he’d thought it was cool, dreaming of things before they happened. Then Jessica died and Sam had known it would happen, but couldn’t do anything to stop it. How was he to know that the vision of Jessica hovering on the ceiling, a bleeding slash across her stomach, going up in flames, would actually come true?

But he should have known, he thought, because those dreams had the same feel of the others, the ones that he _knew_ were real. It didn’t matter that it was impossible for that to happen. It _did_ happen and he should have been able to stop it, should have taken the dreams more seriously.

After Jess, Sam hated the visions. But he’d opened the floodgates and there was no way for him to build a dam in time to stop the images from pouring into his mind. They took him at all hours of the day, leaving him exhausted, worn out. He aged a decade in the few months after her death. And a few months after that, there seemed to be no way for him to get the peace he needed. The world became impossible for him to process when every little thing could trigger another bout of image-filled migraines.

Dean worried. Amber worried. His mom worried. His friends worried. Even Jessica’s parents worried and somehow that was even worse than all of the others combined. Sam could see them all, not just in person, but in his head. He saw glimpses of their lives, their thoughts. The overwhelming onslaught of voices in his head was what drove him over the edge.

That was just over a year ago.

Now, Sam sat across from his psychiatrist, Dr. Julianne Marks, not really trying to ignore her so much as simply tuning everything out. He still had them, the headaches. He had them at the most inopportune times and every one was worse than the last, showing him these incredible images that just couldn’t be real, but he knew that they were even if he was the only one.

“Sam?”

There were the visions of the impossible suicides. After that came the yellow-eyed man. A woman’s fiancé went up in flames, like Jessica. There was the doctor who shot his friends in a hunting shop. The woman who lit herself on fire at a gas station. Endless visions. Endless dying. It was his entire life, it seemed, to see the impossible deaths around him.

And worst of all, no one believed.

“Sam, I know you can hear me.”

He’d told them before, when he first arrived, about Jessica on the ceiling and the people dying almost everyday now in his head. He could feel them all, poking at him, name after name of those who were going to die. He _knew_ they were real. He didn’t know before… before Jessica. It was the same with her, only those had been dreams. Her on the ceiling, stomach slit open and blood dripping down, the fire consuming everything, and everywhere, everywhere those eyes.

“Sam, you need to stop it. You’re hurting yourself, Sam.”

They were in every one of his visions, in all of his dreams—nightmares really. Those damn yellow eyes consumed everything, caused countless deaths, none of which Sam was able to stop. The last time he’d tried, he… He couldn’t help any of them, but he could remember them. All of them. He could do that, if nothing else. Again, he ran through the names, remembering their faces and mourning for them. He was the only one who knew their deaths, who had been with them in the end.

He felt a hand covering his own. It wasn’t until then that he realized the slight pricks of pain on his forearm. He’d been scratching again.

“Sam? Are you with me?”

He was. Sam nodded. Other than Dean, there was only one other person Sam was willing to speak with and she was in front of him.

“You were scratching.” She looked pointedly at his arm.

Sam nodded again, catching the implication. He hadn’t even realized it was happening, but he would be more conscious of it in the future. He didn’t like the restraints they’d put on him if he wasn’t.  

“Want to tell me what you’re thinking?” she asked.

He liked that she didn’t pry too hard. He could talk to her on his own time, when he was ready for it. She had been the one he’d told about Jessica’s pregnancy, about her burning on the ceiling, about the yellow eyes, before any of the others. Sometimes, she was right, it helped to talk. Mostly, though, he preferred to keep to himself. This time, it seemed as if the former was his best option.

“They’re all there,” Sam said. “In my head. I try to stop them, but the headaches come and push me away and I can see…” he trailed off and had to concentrate to keep from scratching again.

“See what, Sam?” she prompted when he stopped talking.

“I can see them all dying, every one of them.”

This time, she saw that his pause was to prepare himself. He planned on continuing. He just needed time to do so. She kept silent and her patience was rewarded a minute later.

“Fifty-six left of them now. There were dozens of them before. It’s going to come for me soon, but I’ll see it before. I always see them—twice. Once when they’re taken, once when they die. I’ll see me, both times, _twice_. I’ll see _me_ taken to Cold Oak and then I’ll see _me_ die just like I see them. They come faster with every round of the gauntlet because it has to be a gauntlet. Why would they bring them in round after round unless it was a gauntlet? Every week, four more. Winner takes all, but then there’s the prize…” he trailed off, thinking again and the doctor knew she was losing him.

“What’s the prize, Sam?” she asked, knowing that feeding into his delusions wasn’t good for him, but not seeing another way to keep him from retreating back into himself.

She was surprised when, instead of droning on like he had been, half mumbling to himself instead of actively talking to her, he looked her right in the eye and spoke clear as a bell. A small smile even played on his lips. It was a welcome sight, even if the words he spoke bellied the action.

“There’s never a prize,” he said. “We all die in the end. Why would this be any different?”

That, she didn’t have an answer to.

“I need you to do me a favor. Please,” he added when she looked hesitant. “When I disappear like them, when Dean comes looking for me, you can’t tell him where I am until it’s all over. He’ll go and he’ll die and I can’t see that. Can’t see it. Can’t.”

With that, Sam was gone, she’d lost him. 


	14. Don't Tell

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, clapping him on the back.

Sam turned away from the window to see his brother. Dean was both the best and the worst part of this place. He came almost everyday to see him, but he played the nurse, not the brother. It was the same as the time he’d had the chicken pox. Dean stayed by his side, making sure he was okay, but was always worrying about him, trying to make him better.

Dean was the same as then and Sam missed his brother.

“Dean,” he said in greeting before staring back out of the window. It hurt to see the concerned look on Dean’s face so he didn’t look most of the time.

“Are you okay? Have you eaten? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, same as always. “Eggs this morning. Couldn’t sleep last night. I had another one.”

Sam knew by Dean’s silence that he was waiting for him to continue. Sam sighed. Even now, he didn’t want to disappoint his brother.

“It was a woman.” The women were always worse. This one especially because she looked so similar to Jess. “There was this thing there, these little girls, but they weren’t girls. They had these nails and this –this face. Teeth. She was torn apart.”

Dean didn’t say anything and Sam was grateful. He hadn’t had enough time to mourn for the woman yet and her death had been remarkably gruesome.

“Karrie Parker,” Sam whispered to himself.

Dean picked up on it. “What?” he asked.

“Her name was Karrie Parker,” Sam repeated a bit louder for Dean to hear. “With a K,” he added.

“Karrie with a K,” Dean murmured. He did it without any hint of cynicism or patronization, only a deep rooted sadness. Sam knew that the sadness was more for him than it was for her, but it made things better that Dean was here to mourn with him. Karrie deserved for people to feel sad at her passing.

They stood like that for a while, but Dean was never one to be still for long. Eventually, he roped Sam into conversation, pulling him from his thoughts for an hour and a half before things went south.

Sam could always tell now when another vision would come to him. He’d learned to recognize the signs—the slight tremor in his hands, his vision blurring every few minutes, the sudden restfulness—and prepare for them. There was a time when the visions would bring him to his knees. Once, they’d made him fall flat on his face and he wound up with six stitches and a new medication that made his mouth dry. Now, though, he knew how to make the transition just a bit easier.

He may not have liked the visions, but he’d learned to live with them.

Right on time came the sudden, if expected, overwhelming pressure in his head. Just as it was starting to feel as if his head would explode, he _pulled_ the images forward and was thrust once again into another vision. He didn’t fight them anymore and with every second, the pressure dimmed until it was gone completely. This one was long compared to the others, but the pain was easier to handle and, like always, those yellow eyes were there at the end.

Sam clutched his head in his hands and tried to keep his moans as low as possible while he returned to himself. It was always disorienting, but the last thing he wanted was to summon the nurses. They meant well, he knew, but they didn’t understand what was happening to him, that the visions were warnings, especially this one. If they saw, they would restrain him and medicate him and Dean would have to leave like he always did after an ‘episode.’ So he tried to keep quiet. 

It took longer to recover from the attack, but when he came to, he saw that he’d failed. Sam had the attention of the entire room now, including three orderlies, two nurses, just over a dozen residents, and his brother who looked at him with such guilt that it left an imprint on Sam’s mind. Dean should never have had to look at him that way. This wasn’t any of his fault, but Dean would always feel guilty, if not for his nonexistent part in Sam’s delusions, then in being the one to put him here in the first place. And the weight Dean carried on his shoulders would only be added to after tonight.

A nurse kneeled down next to him and it took a moment for him to realize that she’d been speaking to him. His visions always made it harder to concentrate. Coupled with the medications that worked to keep him complacent, the visions pulled all of the energy out of him, even the small amount he reserved for simple thinking and motor skills.

“’M fine,” he mumbled once he could find the muscles that controlled his speech. “Gimme a minute.” Sam waited until his breathing was under control and his sight returned to normal. The minute pain had dulled to a low throb in his head that was uncomfortable, but manageable. It took more than a minute for him to get his bearings, but by the time he was able to stand on his own, Dean was ready to say goodbye and Dr. Marks was on her way to help him to an emergency session.

Sam didn’t really care about much that was going on around him, but the one thing he knew was that he couldn’t let Dean leave without a proper goodbye.

“Dean,” he tried to call, but it sounded muffled even to him.

“I’m here, Sammy,” he said, reaching out to steady Sam’s swaying shoulders.

Sam ignored the light contact and pulled him into a long hug, much to the Dean’s surprise. They’d never been a real hands-off kind of family, but hugs and the like were usually reserved for special occasions and funerals. It was weird, Sam knew, but he couldn’t let Dean go without telling him something.

“You’re a great brother,” he said. “And it’s not your fault.”

“What are—?”

“Love you, Dean.” Sam cut him off.

Dean looked at him skeptically. He didn’t know what had prompted the sudden change in Sam. _Another_ sudden change, he reminded himself. There had been so many in the last year. “Yeah, Sammy,” he said instead. “Love you, too. You know that.”

“Bye,” Sam said.

It was a dismissal if Dean ever heard one.

Sam turned away from his brother, knowing that if he kept watching as Dean left, he wouldn’t be able to keep from crying. That was a big no-no here. It would be seen as him slipping into hysteria and only more drugs would await him. His next session with Dr. Marks would be postponed. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. This was probably the only session that mattered to him. He needed to talk to her as soon as possible. There wasn’t much time.

“Sam?”

When Sam looked up, he was shocked to see the doctor in question watching him in concern.

“Are you ready for your session?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Sam knew that, if he told her no, he wasn’t ready, she would give him the time he needed.

Sam nodded though and followed her through the short maze of halls to her office. She didn’t speak again until they were both sitting comfortably in their chairs.

“You’re still getting the headaches?” she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

Sam hesitated, but then nodded sheepishly. He’d been keeping his visions a secret ever since he’d told her about the gauntlet. The last time he mentioned it, they’d put him on some meds that made everything fuzzy. They hadn’t made the visions disappear, but they had made it so hard to concentrate during them that he couldn’t remember much of what happened. He _needed_ to remember. The people in his visions deserved that from him. Luckily, some side effects started rearing their ugly heads and Dr. Marks took him off of them, switching them to some less-effective—not that she knew that—meds.

“Why did you feel the need to keep them a secret?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

When he spoke, it was with nothing more than a whisper. “They didn’t stop,” he said. “It just made everything… blurry.”

“What did, Sam?”

“The pills. The blue ones—I don’t remember the name—they took my head and made everything smoosh together. I forgot them,” he admitted ashamedly. “I don’t want to forget them.”

“Forget who?”

“Sarah Kedrick, James Roberts, Cynthia Saint-Claire, Arthur Heaver, Linda Patrick, Fa Chu, Emily Rossen, Terry Harrisburg, Dwaine Cooper, Samantha Tate…” Sam repeated all of the names he remembered, the faces of the fallen flashing before his eyes. Tears poured down his face in torrents, but his voice was steady. All were present, but for the few he’d seen during the heavy medication stint. “…Karrie Parker, Sammy Winchester.”

There was a pregnant pause before Dr. Marks spoke. “Winchester?” she asked.

It wasn’t the question Sam was expecting. He’d been prepared to answer who these people were, why he’d spoken their names, how they’d died, why his own name was on the list. He never even considered the surname that came easily to his lips.

Sam nodded. “It’s me,” he said.

“Why that name, Sam?” she asked.

Sam’s smile was small, but present and the doctor took that as a good sign. “It’s my real name. Dean can tell you. He probably still remembers it. I was only a baby, but Dean was six—old enough that he would remember his real name. I wasn’t a Clark until I was two.”

“So why did you use it? Why this name?”

“It’s what he calls me,” Sam said. “’Little Sammy Winchester.’ He’s always the one who tells me the names, before then they’re just faces.”

“Who, Sam?”

“The man with the yellow eyes. He’s the one who puts us in the gauntlet.”

Dr. Marks remembered the session when Sam mentioned the gauntlet in… Cold Oak? Something like that. She had the notes in another file. She planned to compare them later.

“You’re in a gauntlet?” she questioned.

Sam rolled his eyes and scoffed softly at her tone. He wiped the tears off of his face and sniffled to clear his nose. He hated crying. “No, not now.”

The doctor made a note that Sam was definitely more engaged in this conversation. He was still slightly withdrawn, but nowhere near where he’d been even a month ago.

“I think it’s happening tonight,” Sam said slowly, trying to piece the vision together again. “Yeah, it’s tonight.” When it looked like she was waiting for him to continue, he did. “I need you to promise me that you’ll do something,” Sam said. “It’s not something you shouldn’t do,” he hastened to inform her.

Dr. Marks thought about it and nodded. “Tell me what you want and I’ll promise if I can, alright?”

“Okay.” Sam took a breath to steel himself. This would take away any chance of rescue, he knew. This would bring his death. There would be no one there to help him if he did this. “You have to promise that you won’t tell Dean where he’s taking me.”

“We won’t let you go anywhere, Sam. You’re safe here. You know that, don’t you?”

Sam smiled genuinely at her, but it was still a hopeless smile and more than a little chiding for her innocence. “I know. Humor me, though. I won’t go willingly, but if I can’t fight him off, don’t tell Dean about the gauntlet. He can’t know. Please,” he pleaded.

“Alright,” she said. “I have a new deal for you. Promise me that you will stay here tonight and I won’t tell Dean about the gauntlet.”

 “I can’t,” Sam told her sadly. “But please don’t tell him.”

She already couldn’t tell the brother anything about their sessions so that was an easy enough promise to keep. The only thing that worried her, however, was this man with yellow eyes that Sam had been seeing. There had never been hints before of Sam wanting to run. If anything, she knew that he liked having the outside world shut out. He’d definitely developed a good case of agoraphobia while he’d been here. Even his time in the garden was spent as close to the walls as possible. Why he would leave, she didn’t know. She would press for information, though. For it to have been such a recent development meant that something in his environment had changed. Perhaps it was one of the orderlies or nurses who had done something. If so, she would find out what.

 

 

 

_Dean didn’t know how to feel._

_Death could see the emotions surrounding his soul in a whirlwind. Anger, worry, doubt, guilt, anxiety, depression. It left his soul shining brilliantly, beckoning to any creature within a five mile radius. Luckily for the boy, there was nothing near. Azazel had who he wanted—the youngest Winchester boy. Dean was not on the list yet. Despite the brilliance of his soul, to Azazel he was just that: a soul. Death knew that Dean would play a much bigger role in the coming storm. For now, though, Death was content to watch Dean pace the length of the garage, worrying over Samuel’s disappearance._

_Another familiar soul drove up to the garage, so similar to Dean’s, but too dim to be mistaken for his. Time had been rewritten for this man. One thousand four hundred forty-two people had been reaped before their times because of his decision. The world was a much darker place. The night was ruling quickly instead of being culled by the Winchesters. Now, there was only John to keep the night at bay and the night did not take the hunter seriously. It would be a mistake for many, but for most, it was their opportunity to take the world._

_But there was still time, yet. Still decisions to be made.  Death watched and waited._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Fearless Readers! Unfortunately, school starts again next week which means less time for me to write. I'll try to average 1-2 posts every week until I'm finished with this fic, but no promises. What I can promise, though, is that the next chapter will be up Monday. What do you think? Leave me a comment and let me know :) Read on!


	15. Reunion

"Is Dean around?"

The deep voice startled Ryan. He hadn't heard the man come up, though he didn't really have much of an excuse for that seeing as the man's car was parked just three yards away. The man was old and gruff, but his car was a classic and Ryan knew him on sight.

"Holy crap, John," Ryan said. He chuckled breathlessly. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Not my fault you're not on your toes," John said good-naturedly. "Dean in today?"

"Yeah," Ryan hesitated. "He's in the back. He's not working on any cars today, though, John."

Ryan expected the concerned creasing of his eyebrows. What he wasn't expecting was the intense—slightly scary, though he wouldn't admit that—look on John's face. Ryan swallowed thickly.

"What happened?" John asked.

"Not sure," Ryan shrugged. "Something about his brother, I think. Dean just said to tend the customers and then he holed himself up in his office. I can take a peek under the hood if you want though. It'd be a privilege to take care of such a beauty."

"Not a chance," John said. His smile was gone and Ryan thought that maybe he was still shooting for a playful tone, but just wasn't quite succeeding.

"Oh, come on, John. Dean's the only one who ever gets to work on her." He reached out to slide his hand along her hood, but hesitated when he heard, "Touch the car and you'll regret it."

Ryan sighed. If John didn't want anyone touching his car, that was his own business. John was a weird one alright. Dean obviously had some respect for the man, but there was just something that didn't sit right in Ryan's stomach. John was intense… and more than a little obsessed with his boss, truth be told. Ryan suspected that John's feelings were more than platonic, but since he'd never done anything to prove it one way or the other, Ryan was left to his speculations.

Besides, Dean had Amber. She was a wily one, but she had a good heart. Dean was lucky to have her. If John thought Dean would give him the time of day, he was sadly mistaken, but it wasn't going to be Ryan who broke the news to the man. He liked the way his face was just fine, thank you very much.

"Like I said, man, I'll tell Dean you stopped by."

"I'd actually like a minute with him if you don't mind. I'm here for more than just the car."

Ryan wasn't sure about it, but John didn't really give him much of a choice. The man bounded past him and knocked on Dean's office door before Ryan could even get out a, "hey, wait!"

"You can't be back here," Ryan said, trying to use the most authoritative tone he could muster with his barely-an-adult voice.

John turned around to face him, not so much glaring as simply staring him down. His arms rested comfortably at his sides, but it wasn't until Ryan started looking at them that he realized just how in shape the man was. Ryan didn't have any hope of fighting John off if he decided to become a problem, even if he did still have a wrench in his hands.

The door opened, showing Dean and his slightly red-rimed eyes. Whatever happened with Sammy must have ben bad for him to be so out of sorts. Ryan sure as hell wasn't going to say anything to Dean about it, though. With as much as he was skittish around John, Ryan  _knew_ that Dean could kick his ass. He'd seen the man in action only once when some junkie tried to rob them, but once was enough to make him more wary about pissing off his boss. And if Ryan was just a little relieved that Dean was here to keep Ryan's skull from being caved in by John WhateverTheFuckHisLastNameWas, it was just another thing that Ryan wasn't going to mention.

"Sorry, Dean," Ryan said. "I know you said not to disturb you."

"It's alright, Ryan," Dean said from the now-open doorway. "Come on in, John. I'll pour you a drink. You look almost as bad as me." Dean's smile was wearier than Ryan had ever seen it.

John nodded, accepting the offer, and walked into the office with just a slightly smug glance behind him.

Then the door was closed and Ryan was alone again.

With a mental shrug, Ryan went back to working on the Wilson car. It was a car he was all too familiar with. For reasons unknown, Sarah Wilson just kept bringing her junker of a car in, time and time again, for repairs. He'd inquired once why she didn't just buy a new car—it would have cost her thousands of dollars less in repairs—but she just shrugged and asked when he would be done with it. Dean had needed to order more parts, but they came quickly enough. He'd be able to call her later to come get it.

It was fifteen minutes later that he heard the first loud bang from the office. Ryan startled and dropped the rag in his hands. He looked curiously at the door, hearing another few knocks and thumps. Now that he was listening, he could hear shouting, but not for help. It was an argument, and it was Dean who was being the loudest about it.

" _You think that makes it better?! Twenty-three years and you think you have a right?!"_

The reply was too quiet for Ryan to hear, but he definitely heard Dean's angry response. Whatever he'd been told obviously hadn't done much to quell his boss's fury. " _Get the hell out of my office, John, or so help me, God, I will force you out!"_

It wasn't until he heard the crash of glass striking the hard floor that Ryan was up and at the phone, grabbing it off of the cradle, going quickly to Dean's office.

He knocked loudly. No answer, but the sounds of a scuffle were unmistakable.

Ryan didn't hesitate this time before grabbing the door knob and turning it easily in his hand. When he pushed the door open, it was to a scene that he both expected and was surprised by. Dean straddled the man's hips and his clenched fist came down on John's surprised face.

Ryan understood the surprise.

To look at him, you wouldn't think he'd be as quick or strong as he was, but that was the worst mistake you could make when fighting Dean Clark. Ryan didn't want to know what John had done to piss his boss off this much—surely him coming on to Dean wouldn't make him this angry, would it?—but whatever it was, Ryan's only option now was to pry Dean off of the man before he killed him, not that he probably could have. As soon as the initial shock wore off, John proved he could hold his own, despite his obvious age.

Before Dean could land a third punch, John's hands were coming up to block him and throw a couple of punches of his own. Dean didn't look as shocked as John had upon finding out the old man could fight. Instead, he just looked all the more focused. His anger bled away, leaving an intensity that matched, and possibly exceeded, John's. His movements became more fluid, moving in tune with the man under him, though he wasn't under him for long. John was soon able to dislodge Dean, flinging him onto his side long enough get to his feet. Dean was up at almost the same time, decreasing the distance between them slowly.

"Dean," John said, calmly. "We shouldn't be fighting. Think about Sammy."

Dean's fist collided with John's jaw before Ryan was even aware he'd thrown the punch. From the lack of defense, John also hadn't seen it coming. The hit landed and John was stunned long enough for Dean to aim his fist directly at the center of his chest.

"It's Sam. And you don't get to talk about him," came the strangely even reply.

John recovered enough to grab the fist after the punch. He was struggling to breathe, but it didn't lessen his grip any. Dean seemed undisturbed by it. With a couple of twists and another well-aimed punch, his arm was released. In another few seconds, Dean had John shoved against the open door, cheek to wood, with both arms behind his back for leverage. Dean leaned forward and whispered in John's ear so quietly that Ryan had to strain to hear it.

"Should have left when I told you."

John struggled in his hold, but Dean applied more pressure until he winced in pain and ceased his struggling. Just when Ryan thought the arm couldn't twist any further, Dean stopped and spoke. "You better stay the fuck away from me, John Winchester, because if I ever see you again, I'll kill you."

All of the fight seemed to drain out of John. If anything, Ryan thought he looked heartbroken.

Dean looked at Ryan in confusion then, obviously trying to figure out when he'd entered the room. Before Dean could ask how much he'd heard, Ryan held the cordless phone up and cleared his throat. "You need me to call the cops, Dean?"

Dean looked at John again, grimacing, and released him. "Won't be necessary," he said. "John was just leaving."

John winced when Dean released him and he cradled his left arm. "I could help you, Dean," he pleaded.

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice unrelenting. "You could have."

As quickly as John's face fell, it became a hardened mask. He nodded once, understanding that he wasn't welcome anymore, and left without another word. Ryan heard John started the Impala and the decreasing roar of the engine signaled his departure.

"You alright, Dean?" Ryan asked.

"Yeah. I'm good," Dean said, though he looked anything but. "Grab me that mop over there?"

Ryan handed him the mop.

"Thanks."

Dean retreated into his office. It wasn't until he heard the quiet tinkling of glass that Ryan remembered what had called him to the office in the first place. Dean seemed to have things well under control though, so Ryan went back to the Wilson car. And if he heard another loud thump followed by quite a few expletives, he wasn't going to mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 15 as promised! School starts up again tomorrow, Readers, so I won't be able to write much in the rush of the next couple of weeks. Luckily, the next two chapters have already been written :) Give me some time to edit and they'll be up... oh, let's say Wednesday. Read on!


	16. Sealed

_With John’s departure, he’d sealed his fate. His name appeared on Death’s list almost immediately after entering Dean’s office. What Death was surprised by was that Dean’s name also flickered its appearance. That, he hadn’t expected. Dean’s name made four-thousand six-hundred fifteen people that appeared on Death’s list because of the mistakes of John Winchester._

_Then again, Death thought, John hadn’t ever been known for his tact. Even when dealing with his son, Death could see that John’s stubborn refusal to back down had worked against him. It was one thing to implement this behavior when facing down a vampire’s nest, but quite another thing altogether to tell the son he’d abandoned all those years ago that, not only was John his father, but that a demon had been the one to kidnap Samuel. That obviously hadn’t bidden well with the eldest of his sons._

_Having Dean’s name in his hands was a disappointment. Death had hoped that Dean would live a long enough life to make things worth it, not that the life of a single soul would outweigh the destruction of many, but it would have helped to know that at least one person’s life had been bettered by the choices John made._

_Death sighed._

_There were still thousands of people to reap before John and after that, hundreds more to reap before Dean. If given the opportunity, he would take them both, Death decided. He’d followed the life of Dean Winchester like he hadn’t any other since Cain’s. The likeness of the two souls was uncanny. Death still had yet to reap either of them, but when the time came, he would be the one to help cross their souls over to the afterlife. He had yet to speak to the eldest of the Winchester brothers, but Death was sure that he would greet his fate without any misgivings. He would, after all, be the one to choose his fate. Unlike most, Dean would be welcomed to Hell with open arms. His was one of the few souls that would be condemned to Hell for all of eternity. Possibly two. Death couldn’t remember the exact terms of a standard contract._

_It was something most didn’t know. Even Death’s reapers had minimal knowledge of the afterlife. Heaven was where a nice chunk of Earth’s souls went. There were those that were recycled, those that remained stagnant in the Earth. Compared with those, the souls of Hell belonged to an almost exclusive club. The only way to become a member was via contract. It was something only the owner of the contract could break. Once signed, the soul belonged to them. Only God and Death had the ability to void a contract and, unfortunately for the poor tortured souls, God was on vacation and Death had too much to worry about than the fates of an imbecilic human who’d traded his most prized possession away for mere trinkets._

_Dean would be on this list. As would John._

_If Dean though he’d gotten rid of his father so quickly, he had yet to see what was in store once his time was up. Only Samuel, Death thought, would be taken to Heaven, not that he’d see it as a paradise without his brother. There was still time, though, to change Dean’s fate. His name was on the list, but his destination had yet to be sealed, though Death didn’t think there was much of a chance that it would change. He’d always been self-sacrificing, no matter the world he’d grown up in. It was in every fiber of his being, the instinct to protect at all costs. It was his greatest strength being able to fight for the things he believed in, but his greatest weakness as well._

_At the very least, Death thought with a smidge of what he believed to be excitement, he may have a change to speak with Dean before he was to be taken to the Gates of Hell._

_Dean’s fate was sealed, as was his father’s. Samuel’s, though…_

_Death wasn’t sure what to make of the murky future he saw concerning the man. Samuel’s mind was in chaos, sorting through the possible futures only few had the privilege of seeing. His mind would not have been able to contain the images if it hadn’t been for the demon blood coursing through his veins. Even with it, Death wasn’t certain whether Samuel would survive Azazel. The demon underestimated the Winchester, but Samuel was not prepared for this fight._

_No._

_Wait._

_Death turned his attention to Cold Oak and reread the scenes that played before him._

_Azazel would cause his own downfall. Samuel was growing stronger now, thriving in the desolate landscape of the abandoned town. There was the connection Death hadn’t noticed before, as small as it was—nearly nonexistent actually, though Death chastised himself that he should have seen it sooner. No matter. Samuel’s abilities would prove fruitful in the coming battle. It was no wonder that, no matter the decisions made, Samuel’s name would not appear on the list._

_Death smirked this time at the images playing out before him. Perhaps it was the youngest Winchester he should have been paying closer attention to. Then again, he thought as he turned his attention back on Dean, the glow of the eldest’s soul called to him in a way no other had. It was pure and bright and it had taken some doing, but Death was glad he’d had the foresight to shield him. The supernatural had always been drawn to him, wanting nothing more than to corrupt such an extravagant soul, more so on instinct than anything else. Now, Death was the only one who could sense it so powerfully, but even dulled, he called to others._

_It would be a shame to reap this soul, one that could have done so much good on Earth. Still, it was his duty to keep order in the universe. He could only hope that they would have a chance to meet. If Lilith sent her hounds after him, Death’s job would be outsourced and he would never have a chance to speak with the Winchester._


	17. Cold Oak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter is set during s2e21: All Hell Breaks Loose Pt.1, but the next chapters will have *SPOILERS for the 2nd and 3rd season finales.

Sam woke for the first time in a long time without a migraine. The area around him was as familiar as it was foreign. He’d seen it so many times, but this was his first chance to see it in person. Despite the fact that he would die here, Sam found himself excited to explore the land. It had been so long since he’d felt anything but dread that it was a welcome change.

He didn’t remember much from last night, but he remembered his vision and that was enough to tell him what had happened. The orderlies were of the devil. They came into his room with black eyes and wicked smiles and pulled him out kicking and screaming. Why didn’t anyone hear him? he wondered. Then he remembered. Someone _did_ hear him. Caleb heard him. Two doors down Caleb heard his screaming and rushed his captors and was stabbed in the chest.

_“Make it look like an accident. Azazel doesn’t want anyone getting suspicious with this one.”_

Sam added Caleb’s name to the list of the dead right before his own. He didn’t know Caleb’s last name, but the name wasn’t important so long as he had the memory. He could be there for Caleb like he was for the others.

His visions didn’t do the town justice, he realized as he walked down the unpaved dirt road. The old miner’s town smelled heavily of dirt and mildew. Buildings on either side of him were falling down, decayed nearly to the point of complete collapse, yet still standing as if by some preternatural force.

Sam walked up a small set of stairs and onto a wrap-around porch that he’d only ever seen in period pieces before this one. The town was old enough, that was for sure, but the buildings would be safe for him for now. He’d seen his abduction. He would see his death before it happened. Death by building collapse, it seemed, was not in the cards.

He peered through the window, not able to glimpse anything through the caked on dirt and grime. Wanting to see, but not able to through the window, Sam tried the door.

Locked.

He sighed. It seemed as if his curiosity would remain unsatisfied. Being able to see the future didn’t make him omniscient, wish as he may. Seeing into a simple building couldn’t even be done. Well, he could always go beat cop on it and just kick the door down. He looked down at his slippers, also taking in the thin robe—no belt—blue plaid pajama bottoms, and white t-shirt. Definitely not a door-kicking outfit. He gave up almost immediately on that plan.

Sam took his time on the porch, noticing everything from the cobwebs on the overhang to the sopping leaves collected in piles below him. He tried every door he came to, but none opened for him which was just as well. As he came to the end of the third building, he heard the creak of the floorboards and knew someone else was here. There was really only one to be afraid of, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t her.

Sam looked for something—anything—that could be used against her and settled on a damp piece of plywood that had been propped against the doorframe. He held it above him, like Dean showed him when he’d tried out for tee ball, and crept slowly up to the edge of the building, hands shaking with the adrenaline that was now coursing through his system.

It was only a split-second hesitation that saved the man from being pelted over the head. The man flinched largely, flinging his hands up to protect himself—too late, had Sam actually followed through with the hit.

“Andy?” Sam asked, relieved that it wasn’t who he’d thought it was.

“Wha – How do you know who I am?”

“I – ”

“Who are you?”

“Oh. My – ”

“What am I doing here?”

“I don’t know, just –”

“Where _are_ we?”

“Just – look, um. Just calm down.” Sam looked at the plywood still in his hands and tossed it aside. Rank water and pieces of rotted wood clung to him. Sam wiped them surreptitiously on his robe, trying to get them off.

“Calm down?!” Andy was anything but calm. “I just woke up in freaking _frontier land_.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Sam asked. It was the only thing he could think of to say, though he wasn’t sure he really wanted the man to recount what had happened. Andy’s abduction had been particularly gruesome.

“Honestly?” he asked, covering his eyes with his palms, trying to calm himself down. “My fourth bong load.”

Sam didn’t know if he was telling the truth or not, but he hoped Andy wouldn’t remember. He _liked_ Andy, knew just how hard it had been on him when he found about his brother. Everything that happened after that had nearly destroyed the man.

“It was weird,” Andy understated. “All of a sudden, there was this really intense smell. Like uh – Why am I telling you any of this anyway? Who _are_ you?”

It seemed as if, this time, Andy was giving him enough time to answer. “I’m Sam,” he said simply. “And you’re Andy. I saw you and your –and Ansem. I’m, uh, I’m sorry… about Tracy.”

Andy looked skeptical. No, more than that, Andy looked scared.

Sam knew what was coming. It was the same thing that always came after people found out about the things he knew. He tried to soften the blow as much as he could. Sam smiled sheepishly, looking down at his feet so he wouldn’t have to see the expression on Andy’s face. “I’m psychic,” he said. “I think. Well, I get these… visions? sometimes. I saw what happened and I’m just –I wanted to say sorry.”

He flinched a little involuntarily, expecting a loud rebuff, but none came. There was a short pause before Andy spoke, but when Sam looked up to meet his eyes, the earlier skepticism was gone, replaced by excited fascination.

“Psychic?” Andy asked. “Like Johnny in _The Dead Zone_? That’s so cool.”

Sam grimaced. “Not really like that. I mean, I don’t get visions from touching. It’s just with the… you know,” Sam said, but Andy looked confused. “The demon, the kids.”

Andy held his arms out, stopping Sam from continuing. He backed away a little, trying to distance himself from the crazy. Sam had known it was just a matter of time. Still, he didn’t think that mentioning the demon was what would of put Andy. Most people lost it at ‘psychic.’ Sam wondered briefly how he would react to the whole ‘delusional schizophrenic with a pain disorder and a myriad of other big-worded medical terms attached to his diagnosis’ thing.

“Demon? I don’t know anything about any demon, man. Like, seriously, I don’t mess with any of that stuff.”

A scream came from across town, startling them out of their conversation.

Sam took off running toward the sound, Andy following just a second later.

“ _Help me, PLEASE_! Someone let me _out of here_! _HELP_!” Loud sobbing could be heard from a relatively sturdy woodshed. “ _Please,_ ” came the hopeless request.

“Okay, okay,” Sam called to the woman locked in the shed. He examined the door, trying to find some way to open it. It was latched closed by a rusted through padlock. “I’m here. I’ll get you out, alright?”

“Please.”

Sam looked around for something he could use and found it among the overgrown grass. The large rock was a little hard to lift, but he managed to strike the lock hard enough on the third try to open it.

“Alright,” he called to her, taking the lock off. “One second.”

He opened the shed door and came face to face with the one person he was hoping he wouldn’t run into.

“Ava?” he said, dumbly. He was shocked, despite his foresight. He’d known he would run into her, but it startled him nonetheless to find himself in front of her—within striking distance, he couldn’t help but realize.

“Oh my god, Sam?” She flung herself at him, clenching him tightly in a hug.

She’d been given the same ability as he had, he remembered—precognition—and she’d been putting it into practice for months now. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that Ava had seen his abduction, possibly even his death. She knew just as much about him, if not more, than he knew about her. That made her dangerous and Sam was ill prepared for her coming attacks.

“I guess you guys know each other,” Andy said, the first words he’d spoken since his onslaught of questions. In all honesty, Sam had forgotten he was even there.

Ava looked at him, startled also by his presence.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly, waving his hand. “Andy.”

“Okay,” she said, promptly dismissing him.

Sam felt bad for the guy. He wasn’t handling things well.

“What’s happening?” Ava asked.

The tears in her eyes helped sell the ‘damsel in distress’ bit, but Sam wasn’t convinced.

“I, uh, I –I don’t really know yet,” he lied. “I know one thing. I know what the three of us have in common.”

Distantly, Sam could hear footsteps and another woman talking.

“Maybe more than three,” he said curiously.

Sam walked toward the noise, the other two trailing behind him. He didn’t like having Ava at his back, but she seemed willing to play her part for now so he didn’t worry about the knife looming over them and whether or not Ava was the one holding it.

“Hello?” Sam called when he could no longer follow the voices. Two familiar faces came into view from around the corner of yet another building. The soldier—Jake—and the manic—Lily. “Are you guys okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” the soldier said.

“I’m Sam,” he said in greeting. It seemed to be the first question that needed answering. He knew who everyone else was, but he knew they wouldn’t know him.

“I’m Jake.”

“Lily.” The woman’s arms closed tighter around himself in a move that was all too familiar to Sam. She was trying to hold herself together, physically and mentally. It was too much to take in the things that had been happening to her. Sam understood. It had been hard for him as well.

“Are there any more of you?” he asked. He didn’t think there were. He’d counted five. There were four new additions: Jake, Lily, Andy, and himself. Ava, the fifth, was the reigning champion of the gauntlet. There shouldn’t be any more.

“No,” Jake said, shaking his head. He still seemed a little out of it, but Sam knew that he was really just taking in his surroundings, looking for possible escape routes. Sam was in the man’s head from the outside, not enough to peek at his thoughts, but just to get a taste for them. He was in all of their heads and, unlike it had been with others before he’d arrived in this town, there was a distinct lack of discomfort when he applied more pressure, gathered more information. Strange.

“How did we even get here?” Lily asked. “A minute ago, I was in San Diego.”

It was a question Sam didn’t want to answer. Somehow, he didn’t think teleportation would be an acceptable theory.

“If it makes you feel better,” Jake said, looking at her. “I went to sleep last night in Afghanistan.”

Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be so implausible. “Let me take a wild guess,” Sam said instead. “You two are both twenty-three?”

All eyes turned suspiciously toward him.

“We all are,” he elaborated. “And we all have… abilities.” They would know what he meant.

“What,” Jake said. It wasn’t a question. He knew exactly what Sam was saying. Denial was something Sam was familiar with as well.

“It started a little over a year ago, when you found you could do things, things you didn’t think were possible.”

Andy, he knew, could plant messages into people’s heads, make them do whatever he wanted. Mind control, only for real, not just in the movies. Jake was strong, lifted a convoy as easily as Sam could lift a butter knife. Lily’s gift wasn’t a gift, was hardly an ability. With one touch, she could stop someone’s heart—had stopped someone’s heart.

As they all told of their abilities—Jake excluded and Sam was curious to know why—Sam played back the images he’d seen, showing him the people who would be forced now to kill. He saw the horrified look on Jake’s face when he first discovered his strength, the shock and tears that came when Lily’s girlfriend dropped dead of a heart attack. He heard Ava’s screams when her fiancé died, the water cascading from the dam when Andy watched his brother kill the woman he loved. He saw it all and he played the images over and over in his mind, knowing that he would see more before his time was out.

When he came back to the conversation, Lily and Jake were arguing. He winced a little at the loss of time. Being in his own mind—and theirs—was taking from the attention he could pay to the outside world. He couldn’t afford to lose it, especially when he knew Ava was plotting even now.

“…don’t talk to me like that,” Lily was saying.

“Guys, please, come on, look.” Sam interrupted the argument easily. With all eyes on him, he realized that the one thing he didn’t have was a plan. “Whether we like it or not,” he said lamely. “We’re all here and so we all have to deal with this.”

“Who brought us here?” Andy asked. This time, it was calm, not panic-induced like his previous questions.

No one seemed to know the answer to that one, but they all looked again to Sam for the explanation. Sam shouldn’t have been surprised. He seemed to be the only one who knew what was going on. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, he knew.

“It’s less of a who,” Sam said, slowly. If he thought they wouldn’t like his teleportation theory, there was no way they would like his demon theory. “It’s more of a what.” It was obscure, but he thought it answered the question pretty well.

“What does that mean?” Ava asked.

She knew what it meant. She probably knew more about the demon than Sam did. What she was doing was trying to induce panic. Sam could sense that much from her. Still, there was no way for him to avoid answering the question now. If he didn’t tell them, it would look like he was hiding something. If he did tell them, it would look like he was crazy. Well, he admonished, he _was_ crazy. Had the bracelet to prove it.

Sam discretely tucked the bracelet underneath his sleeve as he answered. 

“It’s uh…” He exhaled swiftly, trying to gain the nerve to finish the statement. “It’s a demon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has started up again, Readers, which means less time for me to write :( Those last two chapters were the only ones I had written, which means you now have access to everything I've completed so far. I can't promise to continue to update every three days or so like I have been, but I'll try to average a chapter a week and I'll write and post when I have time. The first couple of weeks should be pretty slow so I'll try to schedule some writing time in, but I have a full course load this semester so, again, no promises. One thing I will say: I DO plan on finishing this fic. Unless I have some sort of fatal accident, this story will have an ending, complete with an epilogue and everything :) Read on!
> 
> P.S. COMMENT!! REVIEW!! FOLLOW!!


	18. Not Crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've posted, but here's the next chapter, Fearless Readers. I didn't have much time to edit so please ignore the myriad of mistakes you may come across :)
> 
> Oh and *Season 3 spoilers. If you aren't caught up, I'm not sure whether I'm really ruining anything for you or not, but I'd like to post the warning just in case.

“No,” Sam said for the hundredth time. “It’s what _always_ happens. We’ve got to stay together.”

No one was listening. The others looked at him skeptically as he told them about the demon who had brought them there, not that he knew much about the thing. All it had taken, though, was for Andy to notice his bracelet to instill immediate distrust in him. They were relieved, Sam knew, that he was crazy. If he was crazy, then maybe they didn’t have to be.

“The only think I gotta do is stay away from whack jobs, okay? I’ve heard enough. I’m better off on my own.”

Jake took off, followed immediately by Lily.

They both went in opposite directions, Lily choosing to head for the surrounding forest to better make her escape. Jake had another idea. He walked further into the town, presumably searching for something that could give him a clue as to how they got there. Sam was aware of the spiraling thoughts in his mind, all trying to form a logical conclusion to their predicament. It took an abnormal amount of effort to even concentrate though, and he was left with a mind full of jumbled thoughts.  

“Sorry, Sam,” Andy said, backing away slowly. “It’s just… unbelievable.” _Crazy_ , his mind provided. He followed after Jake, almost losing the soldier when he ducked behind a building.

Ava didn’t say anything. She just took off on her own, choosing to enter a small building that Sam could have sworn was locked when he’d checked it. Sam didn’t know what to do. He stood there, just off of the porch, watching the others walk away. He followed them with his mind for a while, keeping track of them—especially Ava—to make sure they were safe, but then his head began to hurt.

At first, it was a small thud but it grew larger and Sam knew that it was a vision even though they hadn’t caused him pain in months. He’d had enough control over his ability that the transitions were smooth and easy, barely a dull pressure to signify that it was coming at all. It could have been that he was so close to the others or that he was directly in the path of the demon or that he hadn’t had time to prepare. Sam didn’t know exactly, but none of that mattered at the moment.

The pain brought him down to his knees and he clutched his head, trying to relieve the building pressure. Like it hadn’t since the first time, his nose bled. He could feel it drip warmly down his chin, some even going into his mouth. Moisture filled his ears and he knew that they were bleeding also. He couldn’t hear anything, either out loud or in his head before the pain was forced away, another sensation taking over completely.

Sam floated, his body cold and unfeeling, the pain in his head a mere memory while the world swirled vividly around him. Vision after vision plagued him. He watched Lily die, hung dead center of the windmill propellers for all of them to see. The message would be clearer than anything else they’d see: _there is no escape_. None of the others, though, would see it as Sam had, from her perspective. They wouldn’t see as the demons lifted her with an intangible force, the rope wrapping itself around her neck, the sharp crack of it being broken, but not killing her. She would die slowly, painfully, as the air was cut off from her lungs, every breath a chore until it became impossible to pull even a little into her swelling throat. It would hurt to hang there. The pain in her neck would increase the burn in her lungs. It was a horrible way to die, but Sam had no time before he was feeling the others’.

Jake’s and Andy’s and Ava’s followed right after.

Jake’s heart was ripped straight from his chest. No. Ripped wasn’t the right word. His heart was removed slowly, more like _selected_. The little girl’s fingers elongated into black points. Her face contorted into a look of pure evil and exhilaration as they dug sharply into his chest, playing a little with the blood there before digging deeper still. Then she would pull. Not out, but to the side, parting his ribs, reveling in each of the snaps as they broke off and revealed more and more of the redness inside him until the heart was exposed. It would continue beating roughly, stuttering with his fear and adrenaline. The girl’s fingers would slide into it, bursting the large pocket of blood, letting it squirt all over the room and Jake would be dead as well.

His death was even worse for Sam to see than any of the others if only because he could feel the glee of the thing that did it. He could feel it in himself too, responding to the rising roller coaster of thrill as the little girl slowly took the man apart.

Andy’s death was a welcome change, even if he was forced to watch while his head was caved in. Every hit made a wet thud sound and soon his face wasn’t even recognizable. Still, Ava swung and swung and swung, letting out all of her pent up rage, killing everything Andy was and ever would be, feeling power course through her veins at taking his life, holding it in her hands and pulling it from him with every hit.

His head was concave and leaking onto the floor and still she swung.

His head was gone and spread out, mixing in with the centuries old dust and still she swung.

There was nothing left but the red-stained floorboards beneath her and still she swung.

The floorboards were gone, gaping holes in them so she could see through to the room beneath and still she swung.

Her muscles were on fire, straining to lift the lead pipe high enough to do damage and still she swung.

All the anger would leak out of her, leaving her open and undefended against the torrents of guilt and self-loathing that threatened to consume her, until they did. It was then that Ava would die. Her body would strain to keep her alive, but the months of fighting for survival had taken their toll and she would collapse, dead.

Sam could see it all—feel it even—like he never had before. His death was the only one missing, but that didn’t mean much to him. Regardless of whether he died in Cold Oak, he knew there was no saving him. His last vision ensured that.

Sam stood amid the graves of the fallen, all of whom produced flashes of death in his head as he walked. It was overwhelming, the visions nearly taking over now. Death after death plagued him until he forgot that it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t all happening in that one instant. Still, he walked over the brown flakes of grass, hearing the soft crunch of leaves under his bare feet, toward the only crypt in the graveyard.

A gun rested heavily in his hand, but when Sam looked down at it, the visions multiplied tenfold and the incessant history of the gun and its maker scrolled through his head. He barely caught sight of the carved pentagram before his sight was gone, replaced by the pull of his mind. He hadn’t realized he could have visions in his visions. It was something to remember if he could.

Sam averted his eyes quickly, resolving not to look at the weapon again until he could control it, instead turning his attention to the crypt. Strangely, it was the only object since he’d crossed the tracks that didn’t drag him down in a flurry of images, but it called to him and he suddenly knew just what he’d been brought there for, what he’d come to do. It was a Devil’s Gate, a doorway to Hell, and he was meant to open it.

The feel of Sam’s body came to him slowly. It started with a slight pressure, as if all of the air in the room was expanding, pressing him closer to himself. Soon, he could feel the dull thud of his head. It paled in comparison to that of his visions, but it ached nonetheless. His hands were peppered with small cuts from his fall. Blood no longer dripped from his nose and ears, but he could feel the hardened remnants of it on his skin.

He tried lifting his head, but the strength it would have taken was insurmountable and he just couldn’t do it. As the last of the cobwebs cleared from his mind, Sam was aware of his surroundings. He used his arms to pull himself up, trying twice before he was able to lift his body up into a sitting position. Even propped against the porch, Sam had trouble holding himself upright. The visions had taken their toll on him and he wasn’t sure if he would ever work the same again. Already, he knew his muscles had lost some of their definition, his eyesight was blurrier, and his limbs refused to move how he wanted them to.

Sam’s thoughts were in a scramble, warring with him. He could feel the subliminal instructions— _heartbeat, breathing, damaged tissues, damaged tissues, damaged tissues—_ being sent out to his body, trying to keep it alive. He watched his repressed memories on instant replay, over and over again, consuming his thoughts. The walls he’d built in his mind had broken down. Sam wondered whether he would ever be able to rebuild them. It made it increasingly harder to function without them. He had a hard time separating memories, thoughts, and visions from the world around him. They all swirled together, but everywhere there was the press of his body to ground him.

Sam pulled himself up to standing, his protesting muscles sending off alerts in his head. He ignored them as much as he could, leaning against the railing to maintain his balance. Everything would be fine as long as he was standing. He’d seen it, hadn’t he? He would _walk_ into the graveyard, so that meant this wasn’t permanent, right? Sam didn’t know.

It took him a moment to process a loud sound coming from deep within the town.

A yell.

Andy.

Without thinking about it, Sam was off. He stumbled more than ran down the dirt road, glancing this way and that for some clue to tell him where they were. A small glimpse of flashing white in a window drew him closer.

It took some doing to trudge up the stairs, but he pulled himself up with help from the decaying rails. One look inside and he knew he wasn’t too late. The girl had her claws inside Andy, was still in the process of pushing them in, when Sam entered. He wouldn’t die this way, Sam knew. Andy’s head would be nonexistent, spread out among the floorboards instead of on his shoulders as it was now, when he died.

Sam grabbed tight to the first thing his hands came in contact with—a fireplace poker—and he brought it down, eliciting a quick flash through his mind of Ava bringing the pipe down on Andy. He almost fell when, instead of coming in contact with the hard flesh of the child, the poker passed right through the girl. She scattered into the air, morphing into black smoke, and fled with a shriek.

The weapon dropped from Sam’s hands and fell to the floor with a clang. Andy’s breathing was heavy and his shirt had tears and bloodstains, but he would be fine. The wounds were superficial, if a bit painful. Jake had been in the corner, frozen at the sight of the girl killing Andy, but now that she was gone, he rushed forward to check Andy’s wounds. He applied pressure to the worst ones and tore bandages from Andy’s sweater.

“What the hell was that?!” Andy exclaimed.

“It was a girl…” Jake began, but he was cut off immediately by Andy’s hysterical, “that _wasn’t a girl!”_

Sam laughed. It was a quiet, hopeless laughter, but it was just so funny.

“Why are you laughing?” Jake didn’t seem to find it as amusing as Sam did.

“It was a girl that wasn’t a girl. Don’t you know what that means?” Sam asked, still laughing. Tears began forming in his eyes and he didn’t have the strength to hold them back. Sam went down on his knees without choosing to do so. He didn’t even have the strength to stand, was surprised he’d had any to begin with.

“It was a demon,” Jake surmised.

“No—yes—but no.” Sam’s smile was more relieved than anything. “It means I’m not crazy.” His laughter took away anything he would have wanted to say. He wasn’t crazy. All of his visions were true—the demons, the death, the apocalypse, all of it. Monsters that were the crux of children’s nightmares were all real. Even the man he’d seen on the night Jessica had died was real, the sight of her soul hadn’t just been hallucinated. He wasn’t crazy and it was all real.

He soon found himself face down, cheek pressed against cold wood. He lied on the dust-strewn floor in the middle of Cold Oak, South Dakota, despair consuming him until unconsciousness stepped in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the second to last chapter, but then I had this totally epic dream last night (which spurred me on to write this chapter at like 5am) and now I have a better (in my opinion) way of ending this story. So, that "10-15 chapters" thing: lie. And that "15-20 chapters" thing: also a lie. I have no idea how many chapters it's going to be, but I do know that I'm going to be taking this story up to the end of season 5 instead of season 3. For those of you who aren't caught up yet, it's fine to keep reading. I'll post warnings for the season spoilers. Thanks for sticking with me, Readers :) Read on!


	19. Deal with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, Readers, but I think I'm just now getting into the swing of things. Here's the next chapter. Hope you like :)

Amber knew immediately that something was wrong with Dean. Since Sammy’s disappearance, he’d been distant, but it was nothing compared to the thinly veiled anger she could feel radiating off of him from the second he entered the house.

“Hey, babe,” she said as he walked past her. “How was work?”

“Fine,” he said curtly. He tossed his coat over the back of the couch and kicked off his boots by the front door.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Is it Sammy?”

Dean sighed, exasperated, and she knew that she was pushing, but she also knew that he would put off talking to her for as long as possible if she didn’t.

“It’s not Sammy,” he said eventually. “It’s our father.”

Amber’s brow creased in confusion. It had been a while since their father had died—years actually. He’d been an awesome dad, teaching Dean all about cars and sports and music, and Amber knew just how hard Dean had taken his death. Sure, he’d put on a brave front for Sammy and their mother, but behind closed doors he was a wreck. It had been a long time since Dean had been more than a little sad when thinking about him. Usually, he was memorialized with small stories about the time he caught Dean sneaking out of the house to go to a party or his first driving lesson at the age of twelve.

“He showed up at the garage today,” Dean continued and Amber was more than a little confused now, sure she’d missed something.

“What?” she asked.

“Bastard thought he could just show up after twenty-three years and…” Dean rubbed his face. “He’s crazy, Am. Kept spouting stuff about demons and a fire. It was like listening to Sammy in one of his episodes.”

If she hadn’t known him for as long as she had, she wouldn’t have been able to hear the slight crack in his voice. “You think he might cause trouble?”

“I don’t know. We got into a fight in the garage and he left quickly enough after that, but with his ranting… I don’t think I’m gonna take the chance. I’ll file a report in the morning, maybe go for a restraining order.”

Amber was relieved. For a moment, she thought that he would try to be macho about it and claim he didn’t need the help. With Sammy missing, though, Dean was just that much more willing to be cautious. It was guilt, Amber knew, but she was just too happy that he was being safe to try to pull him out of it. “Good,” she said. “Any news on Sammy?”

Dean shook his head. This time, the guilt pulled at her heart. “Nothing. They’ve pretty much stopped looking and it’s only been four days. I don’t know what to do. I’m useless.” Dean paced the room. “I can’t do anything from here.”

“Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you before he took off?”

Dean stopped his pacing. “Just goodbye.” He continued his circuit, from the end of the couch to the front door and back again, three times before he spoke again. “That can’t be everything. I’m missing something. Sammy would never take off like that without telling me.”

“The doctor said he’d been acting strange,” Amber offered.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean dismissed, “he would have told me if he’d been planning on leaving—or at the very least, he would have dropped hints of it—but there was nothing. It was just ‘bye, Dean’ and then he was gone. There has to be something I’m missing.”

Amber didn’t disagree with him. Dean was right. He and Sammy were close enough that Sam would have felt comfortable telling his brother almost anything. He had to have had a good reason not to let Dean know what was going on. Something had to have happened to make Sammy so tightlipped.

Amber stood up and halted Dean in his pacing. “Don’t force it,” she told him. “If there’s something there for you to find, it’ll come to you.”

Dean shot her a pointed look and continued, brushing past her.

“How’s your mom doing?” she asked, hoping to derail his train of thought with something other than Sammy.

“She hasn’t left the house since he went missing. Keeps thinking he’s just gonna walk right through the front door—surprise her like he used to when he was at Stanford. Aunt Ciara’s driving up to stay with her for a while. She’s supposed to be here tomorrow.”

Amber sat back down on the couch, knowing that he’d be pacing for a while yet. When Dean got started, it was a while before he came down—especially where his family was concerned. It was one of the things she loved most about him. He cared enough to worry. Sometimes it wasn’t so endearing—she’d been on the receiving end a few times—but for the most part, she thought it was sweet.

“If your father—” she didn’t miss his cringe at the word, “—knows something, you should talk to the police tonight. Crazy or not, he was saying the same stuff as Sammy. He has to know something, right?”

Dean stopped pacing. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah. You’re right.” Without another word, he stalked off to the kitchen, intent on calling the police department with information on his missing brother.

Amber stood and walked upstairs. Dean would undoubtedly be on the phone for a while, pressing whatever LEO it was in charge of Sammy’s case. She didn’t need to be there for that. Despite knowing Sammy for years—she’d been dating his brother after all—this really wasn’t something that Dean would want her to be involved in. Maybe he’d come to her later, but for now, he needed to be alone.

There wasn’t much they could do about Sammy anyway. Dean wanted to help—they all did—but he’d essentially vanished into thin air. Dean’s father showing up was probably the first lead, solid or not, that they had into the missing persons case and from what Dean had said, it sounded like the man was certifiable. Amber frowned at herself. Since Sammy had gone downhill, she’d noticed just how often she thought someone was crazy, and every time she felt a tug of guilt that she’d thought, even for a moment, of that being a truly bad thing. Sammy was one of the sweetest people she knew. There wasn’t a single rotten bone in his body. For something like this to happen to someone so _good_ was inexplicable.

Had he run? Was he kidnapped? The authorities seemed to be inching toward the former with the signs he’d been exhibiting beforehand, but Dr. Marks had assured them that Sam hadn’t shown any tendencies toward violence, had even gone out of his way to avoid situations that could possibly escalate towards it. He saw things in his head and had frequent migraines, but that was a long cry from killing someone in cold blood, especially someone he’d considered a friend.

Dean wouldn’t believe it, and neither would Amber for that matter, because the doctor was right. Sammy would never willingly hurt another person. If they were his prints on the knife, there would have had to be a reasonable excuse for him to have killed someone and run. If they weren’t… Amber was certain he’d been taken.

She reached her bedroom door and shivered at the slight chill in the air. It was too late in the year for it to be this cold. She closed the window and the blinds to cut off the breeze. Her sleep shorts were under her pillow and she changed into them quickly, leaving her t-shirt on to sleep in. On her way to the bathroom, she saw something in her peripheral vision. She turned to face a man who could only have come from Sammy’s nightmares. She’d heard enough from him and from Dean to remember the neon yellow eyes.

“Don’t—” and then her scream caught in her throat because she didn’t know how to finish that sentence. Don’t what? Kill her? If he was going to do that, he would do it regardless of what she said. Don’t come any closer? Too late because he was moving toward her already, reaching up to grasp her by the throat while a blade stabbed her straight through the heart.

Her vision went black and didn’t return.

 

 

 

 

 

_“Don’t pretend you can’t see me,” Death said, not bothering to turn to the twisted soul sitting next to him—if it could even be called a soul. If Death had had actual emotions, he would have wept at the sight of it. It had been beaten, battered, bruised, poked, prodded, skinned, shredded, and stitched back together again with no care for the original design. Despite what the demon believed, it was crippled beyond repair._

_Azazel smiled, only giving Death a better view of the gaping holes where missing pieces of his soul should have been. “Death, sir,” the demon spoke with false humility. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”_

_Death gave him a knowing look and turned his attention back to the scene._

_“You are here for the woman?” Death asked. Amber Tadawaldt’s name was next on his list, though there was something different about it from the others. It was an unusual occurrence, but not one Death hadn’t run into before._

_“Woman?” the demon questioned._

_Death turned his millennia-old gaze at the demon. “Don’t bother to lie to me. You will find that I have no tolerance for those who think they can outwit me.”_

_“My apologies,” the demon said, feared into a more earnestly respectful tone._

_“So are you here for the woman’s soul?” Death asked._

_“No,” the demon said, scared still to be disagreeing with Death himself. “I’m here for, uh, Dean Winchester.”_

_“Ah,” Death sighed knowingly. Azazel’s use of the surname explained the strangeness of the woman’s name on the list, and Dean’s following so close behind. Azazel knew of the soul’s worth now. He had to._

_“If you’ll excuse me,” the demon said, bowing slightly and blinking into the woman’s sight._

_She screamed, but Azazel had already done his work. Unlike the torturous death he’d exposed Jessica’s soul to, Amber’s was quick and nearly painless. It was only seconds later that Death held her soul in his hands._

_“Don’t go anywhere with that,” Azazel said, turning to face Death. “It’ll be taken off of your list shortly.”_

_Death nodded. He could leave, but soul retrieval was a messy game. Should Death want Amber’s soul, he could just as easily take it, though with great cost to the other souls out there. It was much easier for him to stay put for a while. Besides, he wanted the opportunity to speak with Dean._

_Dean burst into the room, his soul shining brilliantly in Death’s eyes._

_“Oh, God,” his voice cracked painfully at the sight of Amber’s lifeless body bathed in blood._

_It was only because of his hearty chuckle that Dean even noticed the demon in the room, he blended into the shadows so well, but he didn’t spare more than a second for his shock before he launched himself at the demon. Death was surprised at the man’s ability to hold his own. Azazel, however, had already lost patience. Nothing Dean did could really harm him, he knew, but that didn’t mean he was amused with the situation. Between Sam’s rebelliousness and Death’s appearance, he was short tempered._

_Azazel’s hand snaked out and grabbed Dean easily around the throat, pushing him firmly against the wall. He held loosely enough that Dean could breathe, but not enough that the man could escape. Dean cursed the demon, spitting profanities until the demon squeezed tightly so that Dean could pull in just enough air to stay conscious._

_Death waited in anticipation of Dean’s death. Despite his unconventional sadness at Dean’s passing, he would not hesitate to admit that he was excited as well._

_“What… the hell… do… you want?” Dean asked between breaths._

_Azazel chuckled. “I’m only here to help,” he said with a smile. It was more contrite than Death would have expected, but now that Azazel knew the importance of the soul in front of him, he couldn’t afford to make a mistake._

_Dean aimed a kick at him and was rewarded with an angry growl as Azazel’s leg was broken. The demon didn’t loose his grip on the man as he popped it back into place. The body he was in would hold, Death knew, even as he knew the Demon would have a slightly-noticeable limp when he walked now, from the unevenness of the bones._

_“No need to fight, Dean-o.” Azazel kept his anger well hidden. “I really am here to help. Turns out,” the demon said, allowing his eyes to glow their obscenely yellow, “Sammy isn’t crazy.”_

_“You piece… of shit. I’ll… kill… you.” When Dean kicked out this time, Azazel was prepared._

_“Settle down, Dean. We could be friends, you know. I can help you, I really can. Tell me what you want, anything really, and it’s yours.”_

_“Fuck you,” Dean spat._

_“So feisty.” With a squeeze of his throat, Dean’s next string of profanities was cut off. “Do you know what I am, Dean?” he asked, letting his grip loosen just barely._

_“No,” he wheezed angrily._

_“I am a demon.” He smiled at the man’s doubtful expression._

_If Death hadn’t been one for patience, he would have been annoyed at just how long the demon was taking in getting the young man’s soul. He didn’t think it should be this hard._

_“Bullshit,” Dean said. He spit in Azazel’s face and Death was certain of Dean’s quick demise. Souls had been reaped for less, yet Azazel’s smile never faltered. His grip on Dean’s neck, however, disappeared._

_Dean fell to the ground and Death watched him cough and splutter as he tried to pull in enough air to stay conscious._

_Azazel knelt down next to him. “I can give you anything you want,” he said. “All you need to do is ask.”_

_Dean’s angry expression was exchanged for one of tragedy as he looked at his fallen lover._

_Death wanted to intervene. He wanted to assure Dean of the soul’s current state, of its safe passage to the afterlife. Instead, he watched more intently, an inkling of hope making its presence known as he heard the man’s next words._

_“Anything?” he tested._

_“Well,” Azazel corrected, “almost anything. Just ask and you shall receive.”_

_“I want you to fix her,” Dean said, still looking at the body on the bedroom floor. “And I want Sam back. I know you took him.”_

_“Well, you see, sport,” Azazel said, a repentant expression on his face. “I have no problems with the first part of that deal there, but as for Sammy? No, he still has some work to do.”_

_“You son of a—”_

_“But what I can do is promise that he’ll be A-Okay once he’s finished with what I have planned for him. Same condition as he was when he was taken, not a single hair harmed on his pretty little head.”_

_Dean glared at the demon. “Deal,” he said._

_“What?” Azazel asked, surprised._

_“I said, deal. Amber alive. Sam okay. Do it.”_

_Azazel smiled. “Of course,” he drawled. “There’s just a matter of payment.”_

_Dean’s glare increased. “What do you want?”_

_“Your soul. I’ll even be kind and give you enough time to say goodbye. How’s that?”_

_“You’ll take me to Sammy?” And with those words, Death knew that Dean was truly sold._

_Azazel nodded._

_No sooner had the deal been made that Azazel took Amber’s soul from Death. As long as the body could house it, there was no reason for Death to take it. Even Death had rules. The body was fixed, alive, and the soul was placed neatly, if not gently, inside._

_“Amber?” Dean asked, tears in his voice._

_“Dean?”_

_Death watched the man’s soul dim under the intense sorrow. A small crack appeared in it, one of many that he knew were to come._

_His time passed quickly, giving them just enough for Dean to explain that he was leaving and nothing else._

_Death beat them both to Cold oak. He could see the imprints of death all throughout the small town. Hundreds had died here in the last year because of Azazel’s games. It really was none of his business what Azazel chose to do with his souls. He’d staked his claim so they were his to do as he wished. If that meant killing them off to support heaven’s childish feud, so be it. Death had no say in the matter and, even if he did, there really wasn’t much of a reason he could see to get involved. Still, he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to converse with the Winchesters himself. It was why he was here after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I said, I've gotten into the swing of things and I can safely say that, at the very least, chapters will come every Thursday. The next chapter, however, is nearly complete and will be posted Sunday. I'll try to keep chapters coming every week on those two days, but Thursdays for sure :) Read on!
> 
> Oh, and COMMENT!!!


	20. Reaped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter!

Jake checked Sam’s pulse for the third time, assuring himself once again that the man wasn’t—

“Is he dead?” Andy asked nervously.

“He’s fine,” Jake said. “Just unconscious.”

“Do you think he, you know, lost it?”

“Nah, man,” Jake looked up at him, surprised to see Andy standing so close. “Something must’ve happened to him. When he came into that room, I was surprised he was even standing, he was dead on his feet. Couldn’t you tell?”

“Sorry,” Andy said, freaking out again. It was the third time in five minutes. “I was too busy having _my chest carved out by a demon!_ ”

“Settle down,” Jake said, holding his arms out in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just saying. _Something_ had to have happened because he was fine ten minutes ago.”

Andy’s anger was gone, but his nerves wouldn’t let up. He was on edge, they both were. “Should we, I dunno, move him? Or something?”

“I was just thinking about that. He didn’t fall and hurt anything, but he might have injuries we can’t see that could really mess him up if we try. But it’s cold out here and it’s gonna be dark soon. He’ll freeze if we just leave him.”

“So we move him?”

“We’re gonna have to.”

It took some maneuvering since the man was so large, but Andy and Jake were eventually able to pull him further inside the schoolhouse and out of the doorway. They laid him down, face up, under the blackboard. Jake was sure the floor would be a problem for his back, but at least he was in a better position and warmer now that they could get the door closed.

“Here,” Andy said, handing him the iron poker Sam had used to dispel the demon.

Jake took it. “Thanks.”

And smiled, but beneath it was terror that Jake knew was mirrored in his own face.

“What about Ava? And Lily?” Andy asked.

Jake cursed when he realized that, in all of the excitement, he’d forgotten about the two women. “Stay here with Sam,” Jake ordered. “I’ll find them.”

“But…” Andy started.

Jake didn’t wait. “I’ll be back,” he said. He was gone before Andy could truly protest.

Somehow, the deserted town looked much more intimidating than it had when he’d arrived. Then, it had just been a town. After the attack, Jake’s eyes had been opened to whatever was lying in wait. Because now there was no doubt in his mind that everything Sam had said was true. He’d thought that the dreams weren’t real, that they’d just been brought on by being so far away from home in a war ravaged country. That wasn’t true though. He’d known Sam was right from the very beginning. As soon as he said the word demon, Jake had known exactly what Sam was talking about. He’d seen those yellow eyes in his darkest nightmares, he just hadn’t known at the time what they belonged to—and they definitely had to be a _what_ ; he couldn’t imagine a human having eyes like that.

“Lily! Ava!” There was no use, he knew, in being quiet. He’d been quiet in the schoolhouse and the demon still found him. Sam hadn’t been keen on keeping quiet either. It didn’t matter anyway. It would be too hard to find the girls if he couldn’t risk calling out for them. “Lily!”

A short shriek came from the saloon and Jake spurred into action. He tried the door only once—locked—before he kicked it down. He didn’t get more than a foot inside without a demon throwing itself at him. Another scream tore at his ears, but this time he saw the source. Ava stood off to the side as he grappled with the demon, clutching her head and screaming. The demon had the element of surprise, but Jake was strong. He kicked the demon off of him long enough to reach for the fallen poker. Luckily, it hadn’t gone too far. The iron dispersed the demon easily, but Ava continued to scream.

“Ava. Ava, look at me. Hey.” Jake shook her by the shoulders until she saw him.

“J –Jake?”

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

“What _was_ that?!”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re fine.”

Ava was sobbing. “What _was_ that?” she asked again.

“It was a demon.”

“A _demon?_ Demon’s… They aren’t… They’re not real.”

“Sorry to break it to you,” Jake said soothingly. “But they’re definitely real.”

“But –but that’s impossible.”

Jake leveled his gaze at her, but didn’t speak.

“Isn’t it?”

“Come on,” he said, not wanting to answer her question. He hadn’t even gotten used to the idea yet and here he was trying to convince someone else. “We have to find Lily.”

“Lily?”

“Yeah. Sam was right. It’s not safe to be apart like this. We’re stronger together.”

Jake saw the skepticism in her eyes, but didn’t comment. She wasn’t the only one who felt that way. But after what he’d seen, it was enough for him to trust that, at the very least, Sam knew what was going on. Until he came to, he’d do what he could to hold the fort down. After that, he would get his answers.

 

 

 

 

 

_“But—”_

_“You would do well to mind your tongue,” Death said sharply._

_The demon’s mouth snapped shut, but he couldn’t keep the look of scorn off of his face._

_“And if you don’t mind, a little privacy.”_

_Azazel’s glare could have frozen fire, but Death was unfazed even as Dean shivered. He’d wanted to speak the soul for a while now and having the demon in the room would soil the experience even more than it already had. Having the sorry excuse of a soul in his midst was trying his patience._

_“What are you?” Dean asked once the demon was gone. He was a quick learner. He, at least, knew that the_ who _wasn’t really as important as the_ what _—in this case at the very least._

_“I am Death,” he said, this time with a small smirk. He didn’t often reveal his true nature to others and he knew that he would again before the day was out._

_“Right,” he said skeptically._

_“To prove it to you would cause more death than you already have, Dean. Are you sure you’d want to take that risk?”_

_Dean scoffed._

_“Of course you would,” Death said indignantly. “A mite like you wouldn’t understand at all what I am talking about. Four-thousand six-hundred eighty-eight people have already given their lives for you. Are you really so keen to add another just to soothe your doubts?”_

_Dean looked appropriately chastised. “No,” he said, looking at him with distrust, but he didn’t comment further._

_“With what is about to come, I will be… short staffed.” The words fell uneasily from Death’s tongue. “Should you choose, you can fill in as a Reaper.” Death shocked himself with the words, but didn’t give himself time to overthink it. Should Dean accept, he would have ample opportunity to speak with the man and that alone was worth the price. “You have helped to cause some of this mayhem,” he continued without pause. “It is only fair of me to allow you the opportunity to clean up a bit.”_

_“Reaper?”_

_“Yes, Dean, a Reaper. You would collect the souls of those who have departed from your world and escort them to the next, though that is only a small part of what would be expected of you. The rest will be explained should you choose to accept the position.”_

_“A Reaper? You want me to be a Reaper?”_

_Death didn’t remember humans being this slow. “If such a small amount of information seems to be beyond you to absorb, it’s a wonder you are still able to function.”_

_Dean grimaced, but wasn’t cowed. “Why would you want me as a Reaper?”_

_Death smirked. “As I said, it is only fair of me to allow you the opportunity to clean up this mess you’ve made.”_

_“The last time I checked,” Dean said with a glare, “life isn’t fair.”_

_“Do not get cheeky with me. I may be old, but that doesn’t mean I have the patience for imprudence. I have killed for less, Dean, and you would do well to remember that.”_

_Dean shivered._

_“You’re right,” Death said after a moment. “Life is not fair, but this isn’t life. This is death. A soul is a soul is a soul. There are few who truly make a difference in the grand scheme of things and I am allowing you to become one of them.”_

_“Why?” Dean persisted._

_“Because I have a fascination with the Winchester family. Your mother’s soul still resides on Earth. Your father is too stubborn to be of use. Your brother cannot be claimed for reasons unknown to me. That, leaves me with you.”_

_Dean’s anger flared. “I’m not a Winchester,” he barked._

_Death decided that, in this instance, Dean’s audacity was more amusing than anything else. “Whether you accept it or not, Dean, you are. Your name appears on the list as appears on Fate’s, just as it appeared on Life’s, and now as it appears on mine. Your name is Dean Winchester. It is the name of your soul as it was created for you.”_

_Dean seemed to reel from the intensity of Death’s gaze. It took a minute of silence before he was able to answer. “I can’t.”_

_Death quirked an eyebrow._

_“I can’t be a Reaper,” Dean clarified._

_“Oh?”_

_“I made a deal,” he said._

_And Death understood. Dean was who he’d always been—a righteous man. As such, it would be unthinkable for him to renege on a deal._

_“I understand,” Death said. “In that case, I believe it is time for me to deliver you to perdition.”_

_“Hell?” Dean asked, shocked._

_“Where did you think you were going after making that Deal?”_

_Dean shivered, but made no token of protest as his soul was reaped. Death sighed sullenly. The claim on the soul did little to dim its brightness. It wouldn’t remain that bright forever. In fact, even now, it was losing some of its sheen the closer they came to perdition’s gates, the taint of the tortured souls working to poison Dean’s._

_“I believe this is yours,” Death said, reluctantly handing the soul to Azazel. He would see Dean again, but it wouldn’t be for a while yet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter has been written and just needs some editing before I post. So, definitely a new chapter on Thursday to give me some time with it. One more thing: THANK YOU :) to my followers and reviewers. It keeps me writing, knowing that people out there like this story. You guys are awesome. Just saying. Read on, Fearless Readers, and the next chapter will be up in a few days. Laura out.


	21. Hiya, Sammy

They were too late to save Lily.

It took some doing to lower her body from the windmill, but Jake’s strength proved useful and he seemed to be willing to follow Sam. Sam didn’t want to lead them. He still hadn’t recovered from his earlier breakdown and his migraine was working to kill his concentration. It made it so much harder to think. Sam didn’t have much of a plan after Lily, but he knew he still had Jake and Andy to save and Ava had joined their group while he was unconscious apparently. He wasn’t too sure he liked that. The last thing he wanted was to lower his defenses around her. He was possibly the only thing that could keep her from hurting anyone else.

“I put her in the schoolhouse,” Jake said. “Should we, I dunno, bury her or something?”

Andy and Jake both looked at Sam, waiting for instruction. Ava stood unobtrusively off to the side, biding her time.

“We’ll leave her there for now,” Sam told them. Their hope for rescue was nil and he was sure their bodies would be disposed of later on by the demons. After all, hundreds had died here and there weren’t any bodies strewn around. “Let’s go inside. We need to bunker down for the night.”

Jake nodded and took point, leading them to the building opposite Lily. It looked like an old bar, sans the alcohol. The second floor had a few bedrooms that they could use though, and for that Sam was grateful.

“We’ll sleep in shifts,” Sam said once they were all settled in the room furthest from the front doors. Unlike the others, this one only had the one window. “Ava and I will take the first. You two try to sleep for a few hours.”

They didn’t argue. There wasn’t even a debate over the bed. “I’ve slept on worse,” Jake said, sinking down onto the floor, and that was that. Andy took the bed and, despite their obvious misgivings, they were asleep in seconds, exhaustion taking over.

Sam leaned against the wall, facing the door, and lowered himself to the ground. He was exhausted. He’d slept for hours, but the visions took a toll on him. It was going to be a long night and he didn’t doubt that Ava would try something. Even now, he could taste her thoughts. That’s what it felt like, tasting. There was a flavor of hidden malice and cunning beneath what he knew now to be the same guilt he could taste in his own brother. It was stronger in Dean than it was in her, but it was there nonetheless. It wasn’t hard for him to remember that she’d been a normal girl before this, that she hadn’t chosen to kill, that she’d been forced into it.

Still, it didn’t change anything. Ava was trying to kill them. She wouldn’t succeed in the end, but that didn’t matter much. All he knew was that the others would die. Well, they would if he didn’t stop it. What good was knowing the future if he couldn’t change it? It hadn’t helped at all when he’d been taken from the hospital, but here, now, there had to be some way of stopping the things he’d seen. Despite only knowing them for a few hours—and a rather unpleasant few hours at that—Sam felt responsible for them. He was the only one who knew what was going to happen. If he didn’t try to stop it, who would?

“I’m sorry about Brady,” Sam said suddenly, trying to deter his thoughts from continuing along that path. There were only so many times his mind could replay their deaths before he went crazy. Again.

Ava went stone-faced. “What about Brady?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“You know what,” he said. When it looked like she was about to deny it, he continued. “It’s the same thing that happened to my fiancé. And my birth mother. And Andy’s. And Lily’s… You’re not alone in this.”

Ava scoffed. “What do you know about being alone? I’ve seen you, you know. You think you know everything because you can see the future, but I can see it too. Your father’s looking for you. He’s going to find you, you know.”

Her smirk was mischievous and Sam didn’t doubt that something horrible was in store for him and his family. Still, he accepted the unintentional warning. It was one more thing that he couldn’t allow to happen.

“You’ve always had your family,” she continued. “You don’t know what it’s like to be alone.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, fighting to keep his eyes open. “But I know what it’s like to feel like something’s spiraling out of control, like something dark is taking over. I’ve felt it. I can help.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sam. It’s not spiraling anymore.”

Her grin reminded him of Alice’s Cheshire cat. It unsettled him, made him wish he hadn’t sunk down to sit on the floor, but had remained on his feet instead.

“It’s settled nice and neat inside me now. It was hard at first, when everything was _scary_ and _new_ ,” she said the words mockingly. “But after a while, it was just so easy to embrace it. And the things I can do now.”

A cold chill was the only warning he got before he was forced to defend himself from the earlier demon.

“Jake! Andy!” he called to the two men as he swung the iron poker. It passed through the demon, scattering it only to have it reappear behind him. Before he could swing again, he felt something hit him hard at the top of his spine. A wet feeling crawled down his back and, in seconds, he found himself on the floor, floating in what could only be unconsciousness. That much was for certain, though he was still aware of everything happening. He was in a vision, he knew. Everything around him was there, but it lacked a tangible feel to it.

Demons surrounded both Jake and Andy in a flurry. He could feel their sharp claws tearing at Jake’s skin. Another of the demons’ teeth tore a hunk of flesh from his arm. Jake screamed out in pain, but there was no response but Ava’s laughter, Andy standing in shock at how quickly things had seemed to change. 

As suddenly as the demons came, they were gone, in their place only one—the demon with the yellow eyes.

“Hiya, Sammy,” he grinned.

Sam floundered for words, but couldn’t think of anything to say as the scene he’d barely had a chance to stop played out before him. He knew Andy was gone from the glazed set of his eyes, but he could still hear the thud-squish of the pipe as it bore down on him. Sam looked down at himself, surprised to find a distinct lack of blood after what he’d felt, remembering only then that, while it had happened, he wasn’t really there anymore.

“I brought you a little something,” the demon said.

Sam’s confusion only lasted a split second until he saw his brother.

“Dean?”

“Sammy! Oh, god, Sam. What happened?” Dean pulled him into a stiff hug. “Are you okay?”

“Dean?” he asked again. “What are you doing here?” Despite his misgivings, his arms found their way around his brother, hugging him back for all he was worth.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” Dean asked after they’d pulled back. “I’m making sure you’re okay.”

“Satisfied, Dean-o?” the demon asked sending a shiver down Sam’s spine.

“Don’t trust him, Dean. Whatever he says, don’t trust him.”

Dean smiled sadly. “Didn’t have much of a choice, Sammy,” he murmured.

“What did you do?” Sam was horrified at the direction Dean’s thoughts went. “How? Why? Oh, god, Amber.”

“She’s fine,” Dean assured him, though Sam had already sensed that much. “She’s fine.”

Azazel’s smile returned in force. “Time’s up.”

“What?” Dean was angry. “You said you’d give me time!”

“I said I’d give you enough time to say goodbye. You had the chance. That you didn’t take it doesn’t concern me.”

“You son of a bitch!” Before Dean could make more of a protest, he was gone.

Sam stood there, dumbfounded at seeing his brother, seeing the demon of his nightmares, seeing the thoughts in Dean’s head. And they were whole thoughts this time, not just the small tastes he got from everyone else. A small part of him wondered why that was, while the rest of him was dispirited at how abruptly Dean had gone.

“How ya doin’, sport?” the demon asked.

Sam turned to face him. “I…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. He didn’t really know how he was doing, only that he wasn’t handling things well.

“That’s about how I’d expect.” The demon sauntered closer; the short distance between them was enough to put Sam on edge. “Little Sammy Winchester. You’ve been a busy guy, haven’t you, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

Sam was confused.

“What do you know, Sammy?” His eyes narrowed as he circled Sam, peering at him so intensely that Sam thought he might be able to read his thoughts. “About all of this?” he clarified with a sweep of his arm.

“I don’t know anything,” Sam croaked. It wasn’t until the words were out of his mouth that he realized that they weren’t true.

“Lying doesn’t become you, you know. Here I am trying to have an honest conversation and you can’t even be bothered to tell me the truth. And they say I’m a devil.”

“You’re the devil?” Somehow the statement rang false.

The demon chuckled. “Well, not _the_ devil. That’s the endgame. I’m more like… the current ruler of Hell.”

“What’s the difference?” Sam asked, surprised at his own boldness.

“There’s a very real difference, but that’ll all be explained in time. Do you know why you’re here, Sammy?”

“It’s Sam,” he corrected.

“We both know that’s not true. Still, we’re getting off track. It’s the question everyone and their dead mother is asking: Why. Are. We. Here? Do you know, Sammy?”

Sam was about to shake his head when—

“Nuh-uh-uh,” the demon chastised, shaking his finger. He was so close to Sam’s face that he could feel his breath. “The truth now.”

Small flickers filled his mind and all of the visions he’d seen were slotted into place, making more sense than they had before. “’Welcome to the Miss America Pageant,’” Sam quoted, keeping his eyes on the demon. “’Why do you think you’re here? This is a competition. Only one of you crazy kids is going to make it out of here alive. Soldiers in a coming war? That’s true, you are. But here’s… the thing…’”

The demon chuckled, backing away just enough to ease some of the tension in Sam’s shoulders. “That far back, huh? I always wondered just how much you could see. But, essentially… I think you get the point. You’re the one I’m rooting for, Sammy-boy and don’t you forget that—”

“’The others I could take or leave, Josh,’” Sam interrupted him, earning more confidence with every word. “’You’re special, Margaret. I’m betting on you.’” The demon let out a growl of frustration and Sam smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages. “I’ve seen a lot more than you realize.”

The demon’s smile was cold. “I could kill where you stand,” he threatened slyly. His eyes flashed.

Sam almost believed him. “Except you won’t. We both know that I’m the one making it out of here alive, for more than one reason too.” He glanced over at Ava who was still crossly bringing the pipe down, though Andy’s head was long gone.

“I don’t believe in destiny, kid. That’s too small time for me.”

Sam shook his head. His thoughts were clearer now, easier to sort through. Not only that, but he was getting stronger. He could feel it. “It’s been a long time since anyone believed me. I’m not so stupid as to think that you’d be the one to break the streak. But I’ve been right about everything else so far, haven’t I?”

“What makes you think you’re not imagining all of this, Sammy?” the demon teased. “How do you know you didn’t just… break?”

“Because I’ve been broken for a long time. And this isn’t what it feels like.” With a quick push of his mind, Sam ejected himself from the vision. He barely had time to register the surprised look on the demon’s face before he was gone.

When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by three fresh corpses. After Lily, Sam added Jake’s, Andy’s, and Ava’s names to the list. He would avenge them, if it was the last thing he did, though he knew the demon had plans for him. Sam wasn’t too worried. The demon was powerful, but he’d had over a year to practice his new skills and his visions were just the beginning.

“Hello, Samuel,” came a voice from behind him. “Are you ready?”

Sam jumped, startled that he hadn’t noticed the man. He couldn’t sense anything from him, but he looked old and he felt much older than he appeared to be. One thing was for certain: he wasn’t human. 

“Stay away from me,” Sam threatened, keeping himself out of arm’s reach.

The man quirked an eyebrow, but did little else.

There was something about him that Sam found familiar. He wasn’t sure whether it was a good or not, but just the fact that _something_ was familiar put Sam on edge. He took a breath. “Ready for what?” he asked.

“I regret to be the one to tell you this,” the man said calmly. His face betrayed nothing. “But you are dead.” At the shocked look on Sam’s face, the man continued, “don’t look so surprised. Surely you expected this.”

“Jessica,” Sam whispered, making the connection. “You were there. The fire. The demon. Who are you?”

The man sighed. “Would it suffice to say that I am unable remember as far back as to answer that question?”

Sam was skeptical, but he knew enough to ask, “ _what_ are you then?”

The man inclined his head. “I am Death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Fearless Readers, what do you think? Dean's dead. Sam's dead. I haven't killed John yet (still not sure whether I should anyway), but it seems like everyone is dying left and right. Damn. I just realized that I'm out of characters to work with. Hmmm. Looks like I'll have to do something about that. The next chapter is more of a thought than anything. I haven't written it yet, but it's strong enough in my mind that I can safely promise to have it done and posted on Sunday. Read on! And comment!!


	22. Thirty Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so late, but technically (for me, at least) it's still Sunday. Here's the next chapter. I tried not to be too graphic with it, but I'm not sure whether I succeeded or not. Either way, enjoy :)

_It’s so cold_.

That was Dean’s first thought as he was led through perdition’s gates. As soon as he passed through, his entire body was in a chill that sensitized him so that every small touch was agony. Azazel held him tightly by the neck and dragged him through the wreckage of Hell. He flinched and fought, but Azazel’s grip on him was relentless. The demon was much stronger than he was and the grip on his neck only tightened until he could no longer breathe. If Dean thought the lack of oxygen would make him pass out, he was wrong. His lungs burned—an unwelcome change from the chill—and his limbs ached that much more, but there was no relief of unconsciousness. It was torture, pure and simple.

Dean shivered and sobbed, wishing that he’d taken Death’s deal. It had been less than an hour and already he couldn’t even comprehend enduring more pain than this. It was worse than anything he’d ever felt before and that was nothing compared to the agonizing brightness of Hell around him. Dean could hardly see two feet in any direction because everywhere was light, shining the cold right into him. He wanted to squint, but even closing his lids was worthless against it. It bled through everything and he could feel it’s reach deep inside, violating him with every touch.

Azazel dragged him over living corpses of flesh and bone, ravaged by an invisible force that Dean could feel, but not see. Sharp splinters of tooth and bone stuck inside of him, but Azazel’s grasp closed off his screams, not giving him an inch of movement to escape. It was so cold that it burned and that heat was more than he could take. Dean begged for it to stop, but no sound passed his lips.

It was an eternity later that soiled air was allowed into his lungs when Azazel tossed him to the floor.

“Break him,” Azazel said.

Beneath the pain, Dean was confused. There was no one else Dean could see, no one that Azazel could be talking to, but he knew that the demon wasn’t speaking to him. He was speaking _about_ him. Azazel wanted him broke and Dean was already right there, on the brink, just waiting to be pushed over. Dean assumed Azazel would be the one to do it, but he wouldn’t. Something else would. Someone. If Dean had been capable of shivering anymore, he would have at the thought of being torn apart like the tortured souls he’d been dragged through.

When he looked back up, Azazel was gone and Dean was alone, shivering on the floor with nothing to heat him. Even as he curled tighter into himself, he could feel his icy skin prick at him, cooling him further.

“Hello,” a voice sounded from behind.

It was too loud, reverberating in his ears over and over again, drilling into his head through now bleeding ears. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that he would remember every single moment of this place for as long as he existed. Memories of his life dulled in comparison to the pain of the icy light and the deep words branding themselves to Dean’s soul. And Dean understood, without a doubt now, how demons were made. When there was nothing to remember but the pain of this place, it would take over everything—his memories, his life, even who he was would be gone. No, he would never be able to forget so all that was left was for him to turn into whatever they wanted him to become.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” The voice was there again, but this time there was a figure to go along with the words. How could he be expected to see anything, he wondered, when the light took up everything around him? The demon was blurry, so unfocused that Dean couldn’t tell much about him, but for one thing: his face. Unlike Azazel’s eyes, the demon’s were pitch black and they accented his toothy grin perfectly.

That was all Dean could see before a sharp pain unlike any other imbedded itself in his side, taking him by surprise at the sheer _force_ of it. Then more came in his hand, his foot, his thigh, and then they pulled up, up. The floor was gone from beneath him and he was left suspended in midair, held only by the chained hooks in his flesh. Dean screamed out for someone, anyone, to help him, but all that there was, was the ice cold pain of the light that froze the hooks inside him as they pulled him apart, stretched him until he was spread out, no hope of fighting anyone who came near him.

A hearty chuckle sounded to his right and Dean turned to face the demon, his head the only part of him not immobilized.

“Did I remember,” the demon asked conversationally as parted Dean’s chest, “to tell you that you could stop this at any time? I don’t think I did, but I like to be certain.”

Dean’s screams cut off his reply.

“All you have to do is this right here. For every day that you put a soul on the rack, you are taken off of it. It’s a good deal, if I do say so myself, and I have to admit that it has its benefits.” He was silent for a moment, smiling. “You scream so prettily, Dean. Did you know that?”

That was the last thing he heard for a while, though he knew that the demon spoke and spoke often. There was nothing for Dean to focus on to keep him from the pain. There was no way to fight, no way out, no escape. And it became his torment to exist in this state of agony, day in and day out—not that there was much of a sense of time, but the small, nearly insignificant, breaks that were few and far between.

When Azazel returned, Dean couldn’t believe that there was any of him left to hurt, but when he looked down, he was whole again. The only wounds in his body were from the protruding hooks and, compared to the constant torture of his tormentor, they were barely a nuisance anymore.

“You’ve been soft,” Azazel said, flicking one of the chains. He sounded both incredulous and disappointed at once.

“Breaking him isn’t easy,” his torturer said.

“You’ve had him for nearly a decade.”

 “What can I say?” The demon withered at Azazel’s thinly veiled anger. “There’s something about this one. It’s the soul. You can smell it.”

“I don’t care what you can smell. You’ve had nine years with him. That should have been plenty of time.”

“I’m sorry,” the demon pleaded. There was a distinct tremor in his voice. “I’ll have him broken as soon as possible.”

“You’ve had plenty of time, Amon. I think it’s about time I call in… a professional.”

“Please—”

“Quiet!”

The demon whimpered and Dean felt another small part of himself die. What he’d been through was only just the beginning. His torture had been sloppy, hardly focused. Even Dean could see it in a clinically detached sort of way. But Azazel wasn’t happy with his willfulness. He wanted Dean broken and he was going to do everything in his power to break him. Something about the confident way he said it didn’t sit well with Dean.

“You’ve done enough damage,” Azazel continued. “You’ve built up his defenses, gotten him used to the torture. It’ll take years before he’s broken now.”

“Please.”

“To be honest, I think you’ll break much faster.”

Dean could hear his torturer’s screams as he was ascended by chained hooks aside him. Hellhounds tore at the demon, ripping him apart. Dean felt a small flame of satisfaction that he squelched immediately. There was no reason for him to fan those flames if he wanted to keep his humanity.

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Dean-o.”

Then Azazel was gone and there was blissful peace but for the screaming demon beside him. Dean was free of pain for the first time in his hellish existence. The chill in the air was nearly tolerable, as much as any soul could tolerate it at least. The light was the biggest change. It was dull now, dim. He could see a thousand paces into the distance and make out whole objects while he hung. It didn’t hurt more than a bright summer’s day now, though without the telltale heat that should have come with it.

Azazel was right about the demon building his defenses. If it wasn’t for Azazel’s appearance, Dean would have been content to the life he had now, hanging from who knows where and being skinned alive everyday. It was bad and it hurt—more than even he could comprehend—but it was a pain he’d learned to endure and, to him at least, it was worth the price of not having to torture others in the same way.

From what the demon had let slip, there were only so many torturers in Hell. The longer Dean held out, the fewer people there were to suffer in his place. It was that simple to him. He could hang there and endure Hell so that others wouldn’t need to, at least for a while longer. For now, Dean was able to enjoy his reprieve without much fear of the consequences—even if Azazel was calling in a ‘professional.’

Dean didn’t have long to wait before Azazel was back with another demon in tow. This one’s smile was not unlike his last torturer, but he could see that the grin was a mask, hiding the malice and evil beneath it, not unlike the glee his predecessor had. Dean shivered again, for the first time in a long time, in anticipation of what this demon could do. Dean could see his soul, black as only Azazel’s had been, not a trace of humanity in it. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind now that he was going to break under him. It really was just a matter of time. Then he squashed that thought like he had the flame of satisfaction. There was no place for it there.

“Do you think you can do it, Alistair?” Azazel was asking.

The demon—Alistair—came closer and looked Dean in the eye. “Without a doubt,” he replied. “I’d like a little time with him, though. Amon was right, there’s… something unusual about his soul.”

“It’s been a while since you’ve taken an apprentice,” Azazel inferred. “And I supposed you’ve earned it.” He paused. “Be quick about it.”

“Of course,” Alistair chuckled. “But I have to be thorough. Amon did a lot of damage that I’ll have to undo. It may take longer than you hoped.”

“I was afraid of that. Do whatever you have to. I want him broken, Alistair, and I will have it done with or without you.” And Azazel was gone as quickly as he’d appeared.

Alistair reached out and grabbed Dean’s head, turning him this way and that. “No, no, no,” he said, tsking under his breath. “That simply won’t do.”

Dean screamed as the demon scratched at his eyes, peeling off the thin layer of black that had grown to keep the light at bay.

“Not allowed to have these, Dean,” Alistair teased, flicking his own eyes to black while tossing Dean’s away.

The world was white once more and Dean’s torturer disappeared into the light. He hid in plain sight, but Dean couldn’t see past the brightness to make him out. It was just where the demon wanted to be, Dean knew. He’d taken away his sight. It was only a matter of time before he took his voice as well.

“I’d just like you to know, Dean,” Alastair whispered in his ear.

It was so unlike Amon’s booming voice that it had Dean’s immediate attention. It was a voice that he couldn’t tune out, try as he may.

“This will never end. No matter what you say or so, I will always be here to torture you. Do you know why, Dean?”

Dean refused to respond.

Alistair just chuckled. “It’s because you belong to me now, Dean. It’ll only be a matter of time until you realize that.”

Azazel _had_ called in a professional, Dean eventually found. Alistair was quick, but thorough. He knew just where to press to break down Dean’s walls. He knew when to pull back to allow Dean to build new ones, ones that Alistair knew the weaknesses of and could get past without problem.

If Dean had thought he’d been in Hell before Alistair, he’d been sorely mistaken. Alistair taught him the meaning of the word, of the place and the feeling of Hell. It was all around him, deep inside his own mind, and, there was no escaping it. Of course, as it was only a matter of time, Dean broke. It took twenty more years, but he broke.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... what do you think? I'll try to have another chapter up by Thursday. Until then, Fearless Readers, read on! And, as always, I can't wait to read your comments (hint hint).
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTICE: I will be changing the title of this fic the next time I post, from "The Life that Never Was" to "Death Counted." Wanted to give you all the heads up so you're not all like "WTF is this? I was reading a completely different story just the other day." Nope, it's the same one, just with a new title :)


	23. Last Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title change! I had originally planned on making this a one shot. Then, later on, I wanted to make it a collection of 2-3 fics in the Death Counted Series. Now, though, I'm thinking of this as a single, complete work. Hence, the title change. Besides, in my opinion, "The Life That Never Was" was a pretty crappy title. It needed something that didn't sound so heavy on the tongue. And... on to chapter 23!
> 
> *SPOILERS through various points of season 4.

_“That’s impossible,” Samuel insisted._

_“I’m sure.”_

_“Dean made the deal,” Samuel continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m not supposed to die.”_

_“You’re not, are you?” Death asked cheekily. “Because I don’t normally make these kinds of mistakes. Though, of course, it is possible, especially when the Winchesters are concerned.”_

_Samuel held his tongue._

_“You are dead, Samuel. It may not be for too much longer, but your soul is in the interim and your body is no longer capable of housing it. It won’t be but an hour yet, I don’t think.”_

_Samuel was confused and, to Death’s pleasure, he wasn't able to aptly hide it. Death enjoyed being cryptic. It was entertaining, to say the least. There wasn’t much enjoyment in soul collecting and he liked to take his pleasure when he could. It was something Samuel was more than familiar with, however. He’d met the yellow-eyed demon. He’d had vague visions for a year. He was more than cabable of reading between the lines._

_“Who?” It was all Samuel really needed to ask._

_Death turned and smiled at him, surprised at how on key he was in his questioning. “Your father,” he answered directly._

_Samuel gasped, shocked at the implication. Death knew Samuel was aware of which father he spoke of. Despite the fact that, to Samuel, Peter was his dad, there was no disputing who Death was referring to. John Winchester, the man Samuel hadn't set eyes on in his twenty-two years, the man he shared half of his DNA with, was coming to Cold Oak. Samuel was speechless, though Death could see the questions floating around in his mind. What was he going to say? Would he be able to say anything? He was dead now. He wasn’t going to argue that fact anymore._

_Even before Death told him, Samuel had already known it, but like most people he stubbornly clung to life. Samuel didn’t know how to feel, that much was certain._

_“Take your time,” Death said. “It’s a lot to wrap your tiny mind around, I know.” He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he turned, leaving Samuel to flounder on his own._

 

 

John didn’t know what to expect when he arrived at Cold Oak, but even then, the long dead town met all of his expectations. It was cold. It was dark. It was musky and damp and looked like a place where the dead were unrested and angry. Even the lack of response as he called Sam’s name was expected. After being taken—and by a demon no less—he would have had to be an idiot to think that anyone would have come right out to introduce himself, especially with the way John looked right now.

He hadn’t stopped at a hotel in the three days it had taken to drive to South Dakota. The pungent air around him covered his own smell, not that he was really worried about that at the moment. No, the last thing on John Winchester’s mind was his sense of self or even his own well-being. Despite Dean’s insistence to the contrary, John still loved his boys, even after all these years. Just because they couldn’t see him, didn’t mean that he wasn’t there. He’d stop by any time he could to get a peek at them and see the life they led. He watched them grow up, watched Dean play his first soccer game, watched Sam win his first academic decathlon, watched the awkward tween stage when both of them wore braces. He'd even taken a few pictures along the way to stick in his journal and look at on bad days. John never forgot, never really left them behind, except that he did.

John watched them grow up, but he could never erase the feeling of shame and guilt that settled on him whenever he realized that, while he watched, he was never really there for them. He wasn’t there to talk to Dean about girls, to teach them how to change a tire, or even to play catch. He was always on the periphery, but they didn’t know him and, to be honest, he didn’t know them either. They were his flesh and blood, but they weren’t his kids. They were Clarks, not Winchesters. They hadn’t been for twenty-two years.

So, when John discovered that Sammy was in trouble—not the DUI trouble or the accidental pregnancy trouble or the shoplifted a few CDs trouble that could have been handled by the everyday man, but _demonic_ trouble, trouble that no one but him could help with—there was nothing for him to do but go after him.  Because, even though he wasn’t a dad, he was Sam’s father and blood had to count for something.

Still, he didn’t expect Sam to come right out and introduce himself to the random stranger calling his name. He expected exactly what he got—silence, and a lot of it.

“Sam!” he called for the tenth time. “Sammy!”

“Samuel Clark!”

“ _Sam_!”

John stopped calling then, sure that he wouldn’t answer, if he even could. 

The first building he came to was empty, as were the third and fourth. The schoolhouse had a young woman in it, cold with death and blue in the face. John sent a small prayer up to a heaven he wasn’t sure he believed in to save the poor soul of the woman who’d met an untimely death. He just hoped there was someone up there to receive it. no one else was in the schoolhouse that he could see, but the small piles of sulfur told him what had happened. He quickly blessed the room, hoping to make it at least a little harder for the demons next time before continuing on to search for Sam. 

John checked building after building, discouraged more and more after he cleared them with no signs of his youngest. Then he came to the tavern. 

John had seen a lot in his time as a Hunter. He’d seen his share of dead bodies. He’d watched people die right in front of him. He’d seen men, women, and children eaten alive by creatures that, to most people, were only a work of fiction. John had seen enough to fuel his nightmares for a millennia, but none of that came close to what he saw in the tavern. There were four that he counted, though there was enough blood coating the walls that it could have easily been five, even if there weren't enough bits to support the theory. He didn’t pay much attention to anyone, though, but the son he hadn’t laid eyes on in nearly a year.

“Oh, god, Sam.” John knelt down and turned Sam onto his back, checking immediately for a pulse. His body, though, was already as cold as the air around him. There was no saving him. He’d been dead too long.

John kneeled back and cursed everyone and everything he could think of. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. They were supposed to be safe from this life, safe from everything that was out there. Mostly, he cursed himself for thinking that everything was fine with Sam and Dean. The bracelet around Sam’s wrist and the file he’d read told of pain and suffering, of the supernatural world leaking into his without anyone to act as a guide. John knew what that was like. In the months after Mary’s death, he would have gone crazy if it hadn’t been for Missouri. Sam wasn't as lucky. 

Despite the thoughts churning inside his head, John’s face stayed surprisingly void of tears. There was really only one path he could take now, and he’d be damned— _poor choice of words_ , he thought—if he was going to leave his son like this. Dean was safe enough for now, tucked in at home with a girl John whole-heartedly approved of, possibly having kids in the foreseeable future. He needed to protect his youngest, the son he’d left to rot in a facility, nice as it was. It didn’t matter that it was too late. As a Hunter, he knew more than anyone that death was far from permanent.

It took some doing to get Sam’s body in his car—the boy was _heavy_ —but John did it. He couldn’t let Sam out of his sight, needed to stay with him. As he dragged him across town, he couldn’t help but realized that this was the first time he'd held his son since he was eight months old. Not only that, but there was a real possibility that he wouldn’t get another opportunity.

The trunk was too impersonal, the backseat too risky. John didn’t have much of a choice though. He buckled Sam into the backseat of his car, draped a blanket over him, and angled his head just right. If he was pulled over, John hoped that the cops would just assume he was asleep and leave him alone. The cold had kept him from smelling of death and John wouldn’t let it go long enough for him to begin truly rotting.

In all his life, John had never thought of a drive as tedious. He’d never looked at a map and wished that the distance between two points was closer, that it wouldn’t take as long to reach his destination. Never mind that he only needed to drive twenty miles before he came to where he needed to be, the drive was too long and it definitely wasn’t quick enough for comfort.

John’s neck twitched as he exited the car. His hackles rose and a deep feeling of unease draped over him. He knew, beyond any doubt, that what he was doing was wrong in a way that nothing else could ever be. It was, quite possibly, the worst thing he could do in this situation. But he also knew that he didn’t have much of a choice. It was his fault more than anyone’s that his son was dead. He was the one who left his boys without a way to defend themselves, left them out in the open for the yellow-eyed demon to get them. There were a thousand things he could have done to keep this from ever happening, but he hadn’t. It was only right that he correct his mistakes. His boys shouldn't have to pay for them. 

It was only by chance that he had all of the materials in his possession. The bone of a black cat wasn't the easiest thing to get, but he’d just come off of a case in Louisiana where a witch was killing the members of her coven for reasons unknown to him. He’d needed them to work a spell and he’d kept them just in case. Now, they were going to come in handy.

It was ridiculously easy to summon a crossroads demon. Some dirt, some bones, a picture—John added some yarrow to strengthen the summoning spell, but it wasn’t technically necessary—and he had himself a demon.

“Hey there, handsome,” she said from behind him.

John didn’t jump, but he turned around fast enough that it was obvious he was startled. The demon chuckled and sauntered closer like a feline watching its prey. John swallowed as he realized that that was exactly what he was.

“Not you,” John said. “I want yellow-eyes.”

“Sorry. Daddy’s not here to play. You want a deal, you make it with me.”

John smiled with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Trust me, honey. He’ll want what I’m offering.”

 

_“I wish I could talk to him,” Samuel groaned beside Death. “He doesn’t even know that I’ll be okay even if he doesn’t do this. He needs to save Dean more than he needs to save me.”_

_Death nodded his agreement, but refrained from speaking as John Winchester bartered with his soul. How many thousands of times had he seen this same scenario play out? he wondered. It didn’t matter much. John’s soul would soon be in Death’s hand. It would be one he couldn’t hand over to Azazel quickly enough, he knew. Never had a soul repulsed him as much as the soul of this man. Every decision he made cost life after life. The tally was holding steady at four-thousand six-hundred eighty-eight souls, but with this decision, the number would triple in the next three months, then double again in the month after that._

_It was his youngest’s soul that John was trading for, but it was his eldest who was in the most danger. Dean hadn’t yet broken the first seal. It was really only a matter of time until he did, though. The angels had already begun their war at perdition’s gates, but it would be too long before they reached their target. The first seal would break and the others would break after that. Only Dean would be able to prevent the apocalypse, but with the twist of Samuel’s thoughts, he would be more than willing to accept Lucifer inside of him. In the hands of the angels, Dean would only be a word or two away from accepting Michael as well._

_As much as Death liked being right, he couldn’t help but wish that he was wrong. Even as such, there were decisions to be made that would affect the outcome of the fight. Death could only hope that Lucifer had the ability to cast out Michael before the arrogant archangel could cause too much damage._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Fearless Readers. I have an urge to write the next chapter as soon as I possibly can. Unfortunately, I can't promise that it'll be up this Sunday. I have a loooooong weekend planned (and not in the fun way) which means, more likely than not, I won't have time to write like I want to. At the very least, it will be up next Thursday, one week from this here chapter. Until then, Readers, read on!
> 
>  
> 
> And COMMENT!! :) I like it when my inbox goes *ping.


	24. Hell Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! A new chapter, Fearless Readers! It's been a loooooong week, but I was able to finish it up for you guys. Not sure I like it too much, but it's readable at the very least. Enjoy. 
> 
> *SPOILERS: s04e01

It was as if Sam’s new life consisted of waking up in strange places—first in the hospital after what seemed like a lifetime of grief; then in Cold Oak after being kidnapped by demons; then it was waking up covered in mud in the middle of an abandoned town; and again in the tavern with Ava glaring daggers at him. This time, when Sam woke it was in the backseat of a car he knew well, though he’d never been inside. The importance of the black, four-door 1967 Chevy Impala was not lost on him. He knew every Hunt she’d been taken on, knew the miles that flew by under her wheels, knew every way she’d saved lives, saved his father’s life. Now, Sam knew, she was going to save his life.

Sam took the blanket off and unbuckled the seatbelt from around his waist. The keys to the Impala were sitting unobtrusively on the front seat right where John had left them. Getting the ground beneath his feet seemed to be the most important thing to Sam after pocketing the keys. He didn’t care that his slippers were gone or that he was covered nearly head to toe in dirt and muck. The Impala would take care of all of that.

He opened her trunk and found what he was looking for. Sam may have been two sizes larger than John, but he found that most of the plaid button-ups would fit him, if a bit snugly. None of the jeans would fit, but there were worse things he could have been stuck with than old Marine sweatpants. John’s spare boots slipped easily onto his feet and Sam was dressed and ready for the long road ahead. As he gathered the rest of the materials he’d need, his movements were steady. There were no doubts in his mind to keep him from doing what he knew he had to do.

Dean was in Hell. John was in Hell. Jessica was dead, if not in Hell. His dad was dead. His birth mother was long since dead. The only person still alive was his mom.

Sam paused and extended his mind at the inkling of unease he felt at her name. She was still alive, but not for long. By now, Azazel was angry, too angry, with the Winchesters to leave anyone he cared about alive. She would be dead long before he reached her.

Dead, but not in Hell at least, he soothed himself, continuing to search the confines of the Impala’s trunk. He didn’t know what Hell was really like, couldn’t see much past the Gates, but he caught the most miniscule flashes from Dean of ice cold and pain. Their mom didn’t deserve that. No one did, especially not his family. Dean had chosen Hell to save Amber. John had chosen Hell to save him. As the only surviving Winchester, there was really only one choice he could make.

Sam would choose Hell to save his family. Always would.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Azazel said from behind him. “Summoning me… I didn’t expect that.” When Sam didn’t answer, he ambled closer, arms clasped behind his back as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He looked up at the storm-darkened sky and winked, smile breaking on his face. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? You wanna know what it’s good for, sport?”

As expected, Sam didn’t answer.

“I think it’s an _excellent_ day to open a Hell Gate, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Sam said solemnly, shocking the demon.

Azazel schooled his features quickly, but not before Sam caught the glimpse of unease in his face. “Now why do I find that so hard to believe?” he mused aloud.

Sam shrugged, unconcerned. “I want the key.”

Azazel scowled, but the Colt appeared in his hand almost instantly.

Unlike the last time Sam had seen the gun, he wasn’t overwhelmed with the history of it, of its forging or it’s life. Sam knew most of it already, of course, since he’d seen the vision of the graveyard, but the flashes didn’t pull him under anymore, didn’t take him away from the present moment with the yellow-eyed demon. He could control it much more easily now. Dying, it seemed, had had an effect on his powers.

“I suppose the weapon _is_ harmless,” Azazel said slowly. “How about we make a deal?”

“Not gonna happen,” Sam said.

Azazel’s eyes tightened, but he didn’t lose his cunning smirk.

“I’m the only hope you have of opening the Hell Gate. You don’t have a choice but to give it to me.”

“Don’t get cocky, kid.”

“Not cocky, just confident.” Not that he had any idea where that confidence was coming from. “Give me the key.”

Azazel’s anger was expected, even if it hurt.

The demon flung him across the expanse of the road and pinned him against the Impala, hand to Sam’s throat. He couldn’t even hope to speak as his larynx was crushed beneath the demon’s palm. Sam didn’t think there would be permanent damage, but bruising was a given. There was something malicious in the demon’s eyes and Sam thought that he’d miscalculated, that Azazel was going to kill him, Gate be damned. Then Azazel’s hand relaxed enough against his throat to allow a bit of air, even if Sam still struggled to breathe regularly.

After the brief moment of panic, Sam felt nothing but annoyance that Azazel was wasting his time for no reason other than his own wounded pride. Sam scoffed at his pettiness and Azazel sneered at him, but Sam knew he was right. Azazel had no choice but to give him the gun. There was no one else to open the Hell Gate. No demon could pass the iron lines and the Gate wouldn’t open for anything less than the preternatural. Fortunately for Sam— and unfortunately for Azazel—he was the only person available for the job. What little demon blood there was in his veins would be enough to activate the Gate and open the portal to Hell. Whether Azazel liked it or not, he needed Sam. Sam, on the other hand, didn’t have much need of Azazel to further his own agenda—other than the gun tucked nice and neat into the demon’s waistband that Sam could just about, but not quite, reach. Damn demons.

“…snap your neck.”

It was at that point that Sam realized Azazel had been speaking to him. “You wouldn’t dare,” he spat through clenched teeth. ”You need me.”

“Maybe so, but you don’t need to be in one piece to open the _Gate_.” He emphasized the last word by slamming Sam’s head against the frame of the Impala.

Sam’s head swam but he wasn’t deterred. “I do if you want any chance of me cooperating.”

Azazel seemed to understand that, despite his strength, Sam had the upper hand. He’d played his hand too early by killing the boy’s mother. Had he held her for leverage, the tune they were playing now would have been another one completely. He released Sam, allowing the boy to slide to the ground. A hoarse cough was the only satisfaction Azazel got from the action. Even then, Sam seemed to pull himself together too quickly for the demon’s liking.

“The gun,” Sam requested when he was once again on his feet.

Azazel cut off what Sam assumed was a biting remark and handed over the Colt, though not without the trademark sneer he’d come to associate with the demon’s face.

Sam ran his fingers over the weathered metal, absentmindedly checking the cylinder. Azazel caught the action and couldn’t help but twist his sneer into a smirk, made all the more malicious by his glaringly yellow eyes. Sam knew why the demon was grinning, why he thought he was safe even though Sam held the only weapon that could kill him. It was empty.

“John’s deal,” Sam began, thumbing the catch. As unfamiliar as he was with weapons, he knew enough about this one that he could break it down and name every piece as he put it back together.

“What about it?”

Sam released the cylinder and spun it, stopped it, twisted and turned it in his hands. Holding the demon’s eyes, he popped it back in place and aimed it directly at Azazel’s forehead.

“You, better than anyone I think, know that the only ability John has that comes even close to matching his skill as a Hunter… is pissing people off.”

Azazel did know, as Sam said, better than anyone.

“Another thing about John,” Sam continued just as the demon was wondering where his little speech was going. “He can con right along with the best of them. Tell me, Azazel,” Sam said, using the demon’s name for the first time. “Did you check the case John handed you? Or did you just trust him at his word?”

Azazel’s face froze in shock as he realized, too late, that he’d done just that. He underestimated Winchester, underestimated his skills, underestimated his intelligence. He’d assumed, when John handed over the case, that it contained all of the bullets. He hadn’t even cared that much about them, his attention focused more so on the gun than anything else happening at that moment. Without the gun, the bullets were worthless after all, and Azazel didn’t want a weapon. He wanted a key.

“There should have been four,” Sam said as Azazel came to the same conclusion.

The sound of the gun firing fell on dead ears. The bullet pierced the demon’s skull at nine-hundred feet per second, knocking him back and onto the ground faster than Sam thought possible.

He didn’t rise.

It was good enough for Sam, though a small part of him bristled at the thought that the demon had died so quickly. He wanted a slow, torturous death for the thing that had damned his brother and father to lives of torment. A bullet to the brain was too good for him, not that there had been much of a choice. Once Sam had outlived his usefulness, Azazel wouldn’t have hesitated to kill him. Killing him now was a simple act of self-preservation—one that filled him with immense satisfaction despite the quickness of it.

Sam only spared a minute for his contentment before he was in the Impala, Azazel’s dead body showing breifly in his rearview mirror as he sped west. The miles flew by. The road passed in a blur beneath the tires. Sam took small breaks, but he tried to stop as little as possible so he could get to the cemetery before he lost his resolve. It was harder than he thought to endure the stretch of the road in front of him. He was exhausted beyond anything he’d ever felt before, even on the nights he’d stayed up with Jessica, studying for the LSATs.

Thinking of Jessica drove him across state lines and further on through Wyoming. The trip took nearly twelve hours, but he crossed the iron tracks just as the sun was rising over the horizon. Then, it seemed as if he couldn’t even feel the length of the trip in his limbs or the exhaustion in his eyes. He was awake and ready, stepping out of the Impala with his attention focused on the Hell Gate in front of him. He’d seen a lot of evil in his visions. All of it, all of the evil he’d ever experienced in his short life, radiated from the mausoleum in front of him. It leaked out despite the firm lock, seeking out the cracks in its cage and tainting the air around it with a surprising ruthlessness.

This was what Sam had come to release, though even the small amount in the air choked him effortlessly. But he’d been hardened by his visions, by his time in Azazel’s gauntlet, by his talk with Death and the resolution to his own. He could breathe in the chill, use it to fuel his determination. He could walk steadfastly through the seemingly unimportant graveyard with sure steps. He could use the key to release the catch on the Hell Gate and let loose the demons within.

And he did.

The barrel slid into the lock, clicking into place. Sam could appreciate the craftsmanship as he effortlessly turned the key. With every tick of the lock, Sam’s anxiety increased. He’d held it back for as long as he could, but being this close was taxing. He was releasing pure evil into the world. The weight of the lives that would be taken—and there would be many lives, he knew—rested on his shoulders. Was it worth it? Was it worth the thousands of lives it would cost? But it was too late to change his mind. The ticking grew louder as the key spun in the lock of its own volition, too fast for Sam to keep hold of it. Then the Hell Gate was open and demons poured out.

Sam fell back in surprise as the first wave of black smoke stormed around him. He could feel the anger and the pain of each soul as it passed and it nearly overwhelmed him. If not for the cold in his bones and the light in his eyes grounding him to his body, he would have been lost as a thousand pasts, a thousand tortures, a thousand demons filled his mind. Instead, it drew him forward, forced him to pull his mind back into himself, and then the thoughts were gone, held at bay by a hastily constructed wall to keep the demons out.

Sam crossed his arms and shivered in the night air. The demons flying past him scorched his skin with their warmth. Even the few minutes he’d had since the Gate opened were enough for him to crave their touch. The flame of demons around him kept the cold at bay and Sam made a small crack in his wall to allow the heat to seep through. It warmed him inside and out, calling to the demon blood in his veins, and setting him aflame along with them.

Still, it was a long time before Sam could force himself even a step closer. He fanned the flames and stepped once more toward the frozen wasteland of Hell. And two steps became three. Three, four. Then he was inside, eyes clenched tight, pushing the demon blood through his veins with a sheer force of will to protect him against the chilling pain. And with that gone, the demon blood having chased if from his body, there was still the brightness searing his eyes.

Sam turned away from it and saw the open door behind him, Colt caught in between the frame. He hadn’t even realized it had fallen, but there it was just feet away. Sam reached down and took the gun. There was no lock from the inside, no easy way out, but that didn’t stop Sam from closing the Gate, sealing half an army of demons behind with him.

They scratched and they clawed, angered at their continued imprisonment, but Sam’s body remained whole, their disembodied spirits unable to pierce his skin. He was a mortal among souls and they couldn’t even hope to touch him.

Silently, he thanked a God—who didn’t have a chance of hearing him—for the visions that had prompted him to cut into his own skin. The anti-possession sigil he’d engraved on his chest, months before he’d accepted the supernatural as a real force in the world, kept the demons from claiming his body. They passed over him harmlessly, only helping to warm him further in their attempts.

The dark Gate kept Sam from staring into the cold sun that was present all around him. He opened the fissure in his wall further, reaching into the demons’ minds to find a way to stop it from consuming him. He shrunk against the closed Gate, wishing he’d never stepped through the threshold of Hell where the light was all consuming.

It took time, years for Sam to move again, to be able to blink against the light. He summoned visions of his mother’s death, of his mom’s. He summoned the memory of the man coming to tell him that his dad was dead, of the demon who killed his father. He summoned the sight of Jessica burning on the ceiling above him, but it was Dean’s, not Jess’s, not his moms’ or his dads’, but Dean’s death that brought enough anger to cultivate the demon blood inside him. It expanded and fed on his mortal blood, preserving him so that he didn’t age a day for the years he’d been there, and it awarded him eyes as black as coal to filter out the blinding light.

Sam blinked and the light dimmed enough to be tolerable. He rolled his shoulders, heating his blood to stave off the pungently icy air, and walked deep into the pits of Hell, ignoring the screams and pleas of the tortured souls. He looked only for the sight of his brother. He listened only for the sound of his cries. Even as the angels laid waste to throngs of demons and slaughtered the souls around him, Sam looked on, ignoring their presence unless they interrupted his search.

He lost count of the demons he tortured for information. He lost count of the angels that died at his hands when they attempted to keep him from his goal. He lost count of the years he spent searching the endless expanse. He lost the wall that held back the tortured cries of the damned. He lost his humanity in the great war of the Angel’s siege. And, eventually, he lost sight of his goal, the search for his brother.

Hell seeped slowly into Sam’s mind, poisoning him from the inside out. The demons bowed to him and called him King. They heeded his advice, became weapons for his use. As long as the angels were around, he reasoned, he would never have a chance to just _be_. And that was enough for him to wage war, to fight alongside the demons who’d warmed him when he was cold, who’d shielded him from the light.

“Sam,” a small voice called to him every night as he relied more and more on the demon blood pumping through his veins. “Sam.” And Sam listened to the voice, listened to the plan that was presented to him. There were seals that held his true ruler in a heaven-made cage. His true father, the father Lucifer, was locked away and it was Sam’s duty to prepare Hell for his return. It was his job to purge the angels from their lands and bring forth a time of war, to fight for the freedom to live outside of the Hell that existed as more than a place. It was a state of being.

Sam smiled slyly as his stolen angelblade pierced through the housed grace of another angel, pausing briefly before it found purchase in another. They fell with cries, music to Sam’s ears. He cut them down until only one faction remained. An army of demons behind him, Sam chased them to the brightest depths of Hell, stopping only when he heard a broken voice ahead of him.

“Sam?” the voice asked. And Sam knew that voice better than he knew even himself. It pierced through him to his very soul, that voice, just as it had always been able to. “Sammy?”

Sam set his eyes on Dean as the first of the angels reached him.

“No!” Sam cried, slicing his way through the garrison to reach his brother.

But instead of the true death Sam expected his brother to receive at their hand, a deep voice boomed through Hell, so loud that it rang to the Heavens.

“Dean Winchester is saved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist adding that last line. I always loved the image it invoked and I'm happy that I had the chance to incorporate it. If it was a long week for me, it's going to be an even longer weekend so I'm not going to promise a new chapter Sunday, but I will have one for you before Thursday (more likely Monday). I think there's only a few more chapters left in this fic before it's finished. I'd say 3-5, including the epilogue, so prepare yourselves for the end, Readers. I'm going to take this up the the end of season 5. Hopefully y'all are all caught up. 
> 
> I haven't gotten a comment in a few chapters :( Is anyone still reading?


	25. Saved

_Death mourned for the lost soul in his hands. It was broken, shredded in a way that not even he could heal. There wasn’t enough of a soul left to fix, yet he knew beyond any doubt that he would try._

_Not that he had much choice in the matter. Honestly, though he’d taken a definite interest in the young man, Death would have never willingly aided either Heaven or Hell in their petty feud. He would have left Dean Winchester to his devices, allowing him to torture souls until his own became a black cesspool of filth, too muddied with malice to even be called a soul anymore. He wouldn’t have preferred it, but he would have allowed it had it not been for that so-called Host of Heaven, Zachariah._

_Despite the popular phrase, death wasn’t a certainty. It was true that the body decayed, but the soul would live on. Whether it was on Earth, Heaven, Hell, or any number of places that Death had come across that the spirit rested, was another matter entirely. Dean, like every other soul, had chosen his final resting place. He was doomed to an eternity in the lambence of Hell. Except, now he wasn’t._

_Death palmed the tattered shreds of a soul in his hands, peeling away the dark traces that had begun infecting him. It revealed the deepest of the wounds. Energy seeped from them now that the scabs were gone, but the soul was pure now, if a bit worse for the wear. The angels wanted it restored to its original body and Death had no choice in the matter. He pitied Dean. Restoring the man’s soul would drive him mad. It had happened once before that he could remember and Death had vowed never to do it again. The consequences of placing a torn soul in a whole body was not worth the price. The souls of demons, at least, were filled in, if corrupted, by evil. They could exist as a whole, even with the infection living inside of them. But the soul in his hands wasn’t even a soul. It was an array of pieces that were only held together by Death’s hands. He did not want to think about how the soul would be held together once he was gone._

_“Is he ready?”_

_“Do not rush me, angel,” Death warned. Castiel was not of the same mold as his brethren, but that did not mean he was any better than them at this moment in time. And in the times to come, he would be much worse than even the lowliest angel._

_“It is of the upmost importance that this soul be returned to its host,” he continued. “You were ordered—”_

_“Despite the hold your Zachariah has on me, I do not take well to orders.”_

_“But he does have a ‘hold’ on you and you were told—”_

_“I know what I was told, Castiel.” Death looked at the angel then, removing his eyes from Dean for the first time since he had appeared before him, broken and trickling energy that couldn’t be spared if he wanted to survive. “You have walked through the wasteland beyond the gates. You have felt the cold pulling away at your grace. You have witnessed the brightness of the Morningstar. Tell me, how would a mortal soul survive such an ordeal intact?”_

_The angel stayed silent, but Death continued, angry now at his ignorance._

_“You are one of the few beings that can see through the shells that bind a soul. This,” he gestured to his hands, “is not a soul, Castiel. This is the remains of a great man. Placing them in an Earthly vessel would only kill him before his time.”_

_“Then fix it.”_

_Death scoffed. “With what? I may transport energies between planes, but that does not mean I am able to create souls from thin air.”_

_“Dean Winchester_ will _be saved,” Castiel growled. His outrage was surprising and the intensity of it had Death nearly staggering back in shock as the angel approached. “I have only those orders, no others. Tell me what you need and I will see that you have it.”_

_Death turned pensive, looking back at Dean. Thoughts swarmed his mind of how to repair such a soul. Once he had a working plan, he turned back to the angel. “This is going to hurt,” he said._

_“Pain is of no consequence.”_

_Death shook his head. “Oh, I guarantee that it will be of great consequence to you once I begin the reparations.”_

_Castiel’s confusion was apparent, but Death did not elaborate before plunging his arm inside the angel to extract his grace. He didn’t spare Castiel any pain as he divided pieces of it. He pulled small chunks to fill in the missing bits of Dean’s soul and used smaller strands to weave them together. It was a permanent fix, something that possibly couldn’t be undone, but it was the only chance he had to save Dean Winchester, orders or no orders._

_Then, it was done. The angel collapsed on the wooden floor, unconscious for the first time in his long existence. Death blinked out of the room—this was not the time to coddle meddling angels—and into a relatively unremarkable cemetery to finish his work. Despite not taking well to orders, he had to abide by them for now._

_IN MEMORY OF_

_DEAN CLARK_

_LOVED AND MISSED IN OUR HEARTS_

_JANUARY 24, 1979 – MAY 2, 2008_

_Everything he’d ever accomplished in this world would be undone by this one simple action. He could no longer blame John Winchester for the souls that were reaped before their times. Compared to his actions now, six thousand twelve souls was nothing. This was the destruction of a planet and two entire dimensions. The boundless amounts of energy that were stored added up to just over one hundred trillion souls. Their very existence would cease. Their energy would be cut off from the rest of the worlds to keep the balance. They would more than disappear, they would implode on themselves._

_The bundles of energy would not be able to sustain the quarrelling brothers, but Michael and Lucifer would try, consuming more and more until they mutated, becoming stronger, twisted versions of themselves. The destruction could not leak out to infect the other worlds. Death would see to that, but he could not stop what would happen here. He was as sure of that fact as he was of his very existence. No matter what happened this day, Death vowed that he would find a way to break the hold the angels had on him. He would ensure that the destruction was not mutual to those uninvolved in Heaven’s affairs._

_Death didn’t spare much time planning. He could feel the pull of the chains that bound him to Heaven. He’d wasted too much time already with the soul in his possession. He couldn’t linger any longer than necessary. Death pressed past the graveyard dirt and slid the soul into its vessel._

_Dean blinked his eyes into the darkness and took his first breath. “_ Help,” _he wheezed._

 _Though his plea held no volume, Death could read the intent in his soul._ Hello, Dean, _he attempted to speak, but the chains pulled, yanking him from his perch above ground before a word could leave his lips. The Winchester stayed trapped beneath the dirt, forced to claw his way from the grave alone and Death was…_

 _He looked around him, confused as to how he’d arrived_ here _of all places. The light shone brightly and Death knew that only he and God could tolerate it without any form of discomfort. They both burned brighter, after all, and even the glow of the Morningstar could not outdo them._

_“Death,” Lucifer screamed inside his cage. It came out as little more than a whisper from between the insignificant cracks._

_“Lucifer,” Death greeted. It had indeed been a while since he’d spoken with the angel. God had been so proud when he’d created him that Death couldn’t go a century without hearing about Lucifer or his brother, Michael. To be honest, they truly were some of God’s best work—alongside food, of course. No other god before the current had ever thought of including_ taste _in his creations. It was interesting, to say the least, and it seemed as if Death couldn’t have enough of it._

_“I have a deal,” the angel offered._

_“Not interested,” Death said, internally damning the chains that surrounded him. Zachariah thought that he was clever, but it had been a while since Lucifer had reigned in Heaven and they’d forgotten how easily the eldest of the angels could manipulate the loopholes. Had they forgotten the Great Fall? The sacred Garden? The destruction of whole kingdoms at the hands of their brother? Of course they had. Death scoffed. Only those who thought themselves immortal could be so calloused as to also think themselves infallible. They hadn’t counted on the fact that their spell would allow Lucifer to manipulate his bindings._

_“I can release you,” Lucifer bargained._

_Against his better judgment, Death listened._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Dean's out of Hell! Happy? Let me know in your review (hint hint, nudge nudge, wink wink). Okay, not so subtle. Anyway, I've planned out the rest of the fic. There will be 29 chapters total. The next chapter will come this Thursday or Friday. We're getting closer to the end with every chapter. Soon it'll all be over :( Wanna turn that frown upside down? Bookmark! Kudos! Comment! Read on!


	26. "Yes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILERS: season 4 finale

With blood swirling on the floor, it was done.

Sam stood in the church, shielding himself as the cage opened and Lucifer was released. The sight of his wrath was awe-inspiring and he knew that the memory would stay with him for as long as he existed. There wouldn’t be a time when he could close his eyes and not see Lucifer rising. Despite the youth of his body, he’d lived hundreds of years already. More of his memories revolved around the vast brightness of his kingdom in Hell than anything that had come before it. To be honest, the memories seemed distant, as if they’d happened to someone else in another lifetime. There was nothing left of that person now. The only thing that was left of him was this, now, to become Lucifer’s vessel. And there was nothing he had experienced in his centuries that could trump this moment in time. This was nothing compared to the brightness of Hell or any of his memories before it.

Well, there used to be something else once, something he thought was just important to him, but that was a long time ago—decades, at least—and all that there was now was Lucifer’s plan. It took too long to get to this point, but in the end, it was worth it. The seals were broken, whole garrisons dead, and now Lucifer was rising. This was everything he’d worked so hard for.

Since that first whispered _Sam_ , he’d done everything he could to further his demons’ reach. He found all of the cracks in the walls of Hell and fissured them open just enough to squeeze a few hundred demons out. From there, it had merely been a matter of breaking the seals. Dean had broken the first. Sam imagined it with a small smile, the sweet cries of his brother as he shed blood for the first time.

The last seal was broken by Lilith, the first demon. She sacrificed herself, her blood as the final key to unlock Lucifer’s cage—well, Sam had sacrificed her, stabbing her through the heart with Ruby’s blade. It was one of his favorite memories, the look of glee in her eyes as she died. If Sam could feel any of that when Lucifer claimed him, he was more than willing to continue on as Lilith had, giving himself to his lord.

It seemed as if he stood there for a lifetime, staring into the light that was Lucifer’s grace, but even then, it was gone too soon, only his memory of it to remain. The light dimmed as Lucifer reigned his grace in, holding back so as not to damage his vessel when he emerged. The true sight of any angel’s grace would mean death for a human. Many demons could survive an angel’s presence—they’d had a taste of it in Hell—but the true essence of Lucifer’s grace was too pure, too bright to be withstood by any creature, such as it was.

So Lucifer pulled the energy into himself, hiding it away so that he wouldn’t burn them where they stood. Any pureblood humans in the area would die, but who were they to Lucifer? He was the Morningstar, shining brighter than even the sun could shine as it rose over the Earth, casting away the darkness with its tendrils of warmth.

But Lucifer knew, just as God knew, just as the souls that were corrupted in Hell knew, that pure light was cold. No sun could match him, not one in the nine universes or in the hundred dimensions. Not even Michael was his equal, try as he may.

“Sam.” When he called the name this time, it was with the depth of his grace behind it. It felt good to be able to speak without shouting through the walls of his cage.

The human smiled, body humming, lost in the ecstasy of hearing Lucifer’s true voice. Like the sight of his grace, there weren’t many who could hear Lucifer without pain. His vessel, it seemed, didn’t have such a problem. The windows of the church shattered with the power of it and demons cowered on the ground, bleeding from orifices Lucifer wasn’t even aware could bleed, but his vessel stood tall and proud, attention focused solely on the angel in front of him.

Despite his contempt for the primates who— _not for too much longer_ —ruled the Earth, he could see the beauty of his vessel. It was lithe and strong, confident in its abilities, and it could hold him—that much was evident from the way his vessel held himself. There was no doubting that he was ready to serve, to give himself over to—

“Lucifer,” Sam greeted. He dropped down on a knee and bowed his head, a gesture of respect, but more than that, a gesture of servitude.

 _This_ was how it should have been. _This_ was what the humans were created for. Like the vessel before him, the humans should have been the ones bowing to the angels, the superior beings. Lucifer had done everything his father had asked of him, had loved him more than life itself. He bowed to his father, but his service was met with the most degrading of requests: to bow to the mud men as he’d bowed to the magnificence of his father, when it should have been the other way around, when man should have bowed—just as the man bowed now—before _him_.

The humans were considered his father’s greatest creation instead of His sons who’d served Him faithfully, who’d killed each other at a moment’s command, who’d destroyed themselves time and time again at His will. There was a time when Lucifer was a soldier, falling into line behind the general that was his father, but the humans were one betrayal too many. They would serve the angels like they were meant to. They would see the error of their ways, the error of destroying the beautiful planet they were given and tramping over it haughtily, as if they had a right to its magnificence. There was only one thing standing in his way, and it was soon to be none.

The fallen angel used his true voice to speak again. “Let me in,” he said.

The youngest Winchester’s reply was an immediately whispered, “Yes.”

Lucifer had his permission.

He wasted no time slipping into the human vessel that had been tailor made for him. Unlike other vessels, Sam wasn’t snug or tight. Lucifer filled every space inside of Sam’s—now _his_ —body with room to spare. The easy acceptance, Lucifer attributed to Azazel’s blood. It had done its work to prepare his vessel for holding powers beyond any capacity that Michael’s sword could even hope to measure up to.

Lucifer stretched out his neck, reveling in the feel of the body, how easy it was to control when he didn’t have to hold his grace back. His vessel seemed to accommodate him easily, no toll taken on it when Lucifer released the hold he had on his grace.

“My lord,” a demon said to his right.

Without even a look, its blackened soul was torn to shreds, much to the dismay of the rest in the church. Lucifer had to give them credit; they knew just how pointless it was to run. The demons stood, shocked into stillness, still looking at the body that the demon had been possessing.

_You didn’t have to do that._

_I know._

_Then why—?_

_Because he is an abomination._

_You created him—us. That doesn’t make any sense._

_It doesn’t need to, Sam. You said yes. You don’t have any other say than that._

Then Sam’s voice was gone from his head, soul having probably burned up next to the glory of Lucifer’s grace. It was all for the better, Lucifer thought. Now that he had the body he needed, there was no need for the soul that originally housed it. All it would do was cause problems further down the line. Voices in his head would only serve to distract him during the confrontation with his brother that was sure to come.

“Find Dean Winchester,” Lucifer ordered the demons. Michael’s sword needed to be destroyed. He could not allow his brother to possess it.

They all hastened to obey, scrambling out of the church. Those that could teleport, did so. The rest just fled as quickly as possible so as not to anger the fallen archangel.

“No need for any of that,” came a gruff voice from behind him.

Lucifer turned, face to face with the eldest Winchester, though he couldn’t detect the soul through the much more powerful force controlling his body.

“Lucifer,” Michael said.

“Brother.” Lucifer moved to embrace him, but Michael backed away.

“You have betrayed your kind,” Michael said, voice hard and unforgiving. “You are no brother of mine.”

“I did it for _us,_ ” Lucifer said. “Our father wanted us to bow to them, Michael, to _bow_ to the primates. I just wanted Him to realize—”

“No excuses,” Michael shouted. The Earth trembled with its force. “If you truly loved your brothers, you would have bowed with the rest of us, not caused us bloodshed.”

Before Lucifer could respond, Michael struck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three more chapters before this story is finished, complete, over. It is my goal to have everyone who is reading this fic post at least ONE comment by the end of the story, even if it's something like "cool" or "this sucks." Make a writer happy here, Fearless Readers :) Post a comment or a review. Next chapter will come Monday. Until then, read on!


	27. "Yes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late, guys. I planned to have it posted earlier, but my internet's been sketchy all day. I say "YAY!" to awesome friends who allow me to mooch off of their internet to post fan fiction. Read on!

It was good to feel the burn in his lungs. The pain took away from his mind, leaving him unable to think about anything other than the beat of his feet against the pavement. Dean didn’t really care where he was, but that was a good thing because he didn’t happen to know. At three miles, he could feel it in his legs. At five, he could feel it all over. Then he turned around and ran back the way he came until his muscles strained to keep going and the burn in his lungs traveled to his throat, and then he ran further still.

Blood pounded hard through his veins and he could hear it in his ears even after he stopped at the front door of the hotel. He didn’t need a key, never needed one. As soon as he approached the door, it opened automatically. Dean didn’t even blink as he crossed the threshold and strode through the room to the bathroom. He turned the shower on as hot as it could go, feeling the sting of the hot water against his skin when he checked it. It had been months since Hell, but he didn’t think he could ever get used to the feeling of being so _warm_.

“Dean.”

Dean ignored the voice, taking off his sweat-dampened clothes and stepping into the torrent of water. It ran through his hair and down his body, chasing away the soreness and replacing it with a soothing burn. He vaguely heard someone speaking from the other side of the doorway, but he couldn’t make out the words as he scoured every inch of himself with soap, scrubbing until his skin was an angry red. He rinsed and dried and dressed, not noticing when the voice stopped speaking.

Dean collapsed against the bed, noting that the angel was nowhere in sight, and stared at the wall until the familiar sound of flapping wings met his ears. He didn’t move an inch, preferring to let the angel think that he was asleep. There was nothing to say to him anyway. There was only one thing they wanted from him and it wasn’t anything he was going to give them.

He’d said yes to Azazel, stringing himself up on the rack for Alistair’s pleasure.

John had said yes to Azazel, sealing his fate quite literally beside Dean.

Sam had said yes to Azazel, casting him mortally into Hell, poisoning him from the inside out.

And then Dean had done the unthinkable, said yes to the knife Alistair pressed into his hand.

There were only so many times someone could make the same mistake. Saying yes, accepting the deals presented to him, would only make things worse. Aside from that—aside from the apocalypse, the destruction of everything he knew, the loss of his own body and possibly his own soul—saying yes would kill Sam. It didn’t matter to him that his brother was a demon. Dean had nearly become one, himself. He knew how tempting it was to form the blackness inside the soul to keep the light out, how easy it was to forget everything you thought was important in Hell. He didn’t hold any of that against his brother. It was only natural, only a matter of time really, but anything that Dean did now would be _him_ hurting Sam, and that was something he could never bring himself to do.

“I know you are awake,” the angel said. “It is only a matter of time until your brother releases Lucifer and we must prepare. _You_ _must say yes to Michael._ ”

Dean had nothing to say, nothing he felt the need to contribute so he didn’t say anything, didn’t move a muscle.

The angel came around the bed and crouched down to eye level. “This is beyond a misplaced protective instinct. People will die. This planet _will die_ if Lucifer rises and no one is there to stop him, so either get up and start coming up with a plan to keep the seals from breaking, or say yes to Michael so we can put a stop to him. Lying here sulking will not help anyone.”

Then the angel was gone, leaving Dean alone in the hotel room.

The angel was right, Dean knew, but he was also wrong. People would undoubtedly die and, as the angel had implied, it would all be Dean’s fault. But he was wrong when he sad that lying in the bed, sulking wasn’t helping anyone. As long as Dean could hold out, his brother would be safe. There weren’t enough angels to launch another attack on Hell—with any chance of success, anyway—now that Sam was ruling. Their only hope was using Michael’s Sword, but as long as Dean was being stubborn, they couldn’t use him. That meant Sam would live and it was enough for Dean.

The angel didn’t return that night, or the next day. By the fifth day, Dean wondered whether he was ever going to come back. He ran everyday, sleeping when he could. People avidly avoided him and he couldn’t see a reason they shouldn’t. He would be the reason they died after all.

It was two weeks before the angel returned. Dean walked right past him, not even realizing his presence until he spoke.

“Dean,” the angel said, a sad note in his voice.

Dean looked at him, confusion plain on his face. He’d hoped that after their last conversation, Heaven had given up on him.

“Lucifer is risen.”

Dean didn’t so much as nod as he pressed past the angel to turn the shower on. Before he could get his shirt off, he was being forcibly yanked out of the bathroom and thrown up against the wall. Dean’s expression remained passive, though he was starting to wonder whether the water heater would be able to keep his shower hot enough for whenever he was allowed back in it. It was spotty at the best of times, but it never lasted as long as he wanted it to. Leaving it on like it was, was a sure way to run it out.

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Dean?” the angel asked. “Your brother is dead. Lucifer is walking the Earth and, even if your brother is still in there somewhere, it’s worse for him than you can imagine. Do you remember it? That light that seeped cold into your bones?”

How could he forget?

“ _That_ was Lucifer’s grace _through his cage_. Can you imagine what it’s like for Sam, being tethered to the Morningstar? If there’s even a shred of morality in you, even a small part that recognizes what Lucifer will do to the humans that inhabit this Earth, you will say yes to Michael and end the suffering before it can begin. Maybe then the world will have a chance.”

For the first time since he’d been released from Hell six months ago, the angel got through to Dean.

“What do I do?” he asked, voice croaking from underuse.

“Say yes to Michael.”

“Just like that?”

The angel nodded once.

“If I say yes, you have to promise to take Sam out of there, away from Lucifer. He belongs in Heaven.” Dean’s eyes glazed over again as he imagined the glimpse of Sam he’d gotten in Hell before the angels rescued him. It wasn’t the brother he knew, so full of happiness and life, or even the brother he’d come to know before he disappeared, filled with reservation and fear of the unknown. Sam had become something different in Hell, but Dean had to believe that the old Sam was still in there somewhere. 

“I can’t do that,” the angel said.

“Then there’s no deal.” Dean closed his eyes and steeled himself for the consequences. Instead of the hit he expected, Dean collapsed on the floor as the angel disappeared. It was only seconds later that he returned with a flap of his wings, another angel in tow. This one was middle-aged and balding, smiling like a used car salesman. It was a change from the young, trench coated angel who’s avoidance had occupied most of his time, but Dean would be lying if he said it was a welcome change.

“Hello, Dean. I’m Zachariah,” the new angel said, moving forward to shake Dean’s hand.

Dean didn’t offer his.

“Well, I hear you’re having a problem with saying yes to Michael.”

“I want Sam’s soul safe, not playing piggy back to the devil,” Dean scowled, angry at the angels for making it so complicated. If they could pull him from Hell, they could take Sam’s soul from Lucifer.

“That’s something I’m willing to offer,” Zachariah said. “We have a… let’s call it a ‘get out of jail free card’ for your brother. You say yes to Michael and Sammy gets a quick pass to Heaven. Everybody wins. We win the apocalypse. The Earth is saved. Your brother’s soul is taken upstairs, slate wiped entirely clean. I’d say you’re the one who comes out on top, Dean. So, what do you say?”

Dean looked behind Zachariah at the now-silent angel in the room. “Cas?”

Castiel looked at Dean. “He is telling the truth,” he said, answering the unspoken question in the human’s voice. He’d spent enough time with a silent Dean to be able to interpret his expression quite easily. “Sam’s soul will be rescued as soon as you agree to act as Michael’s vessel.”

Dean took a deep breath and steeled himself. “Yes,” he said, the conviction in his voice a contradiction to his rising nerves.

It was a sudden and powerful feeling. If he thought the brightness of Hell was intolerable, Michael’s grace overwhelmed him. It filled every pore of his being until all that was left was the archangel. It was pain, but one that he was prepared to endure. It was light, but one that he was more than familiar with. It was cold and fear and a power that he wasn’t sure he could contain. His body felt small compared to the grace that was nestling inside of him and Dean realized that this was how it was going to be for longer than he would live.

Michael clenched and unclenched his hands, opened and closed his eyes, moved, walked, breathed. The pain wasn’t as bad as this was, the inability to control even the smallest movement of his own body.

_Not yours anymore, Dean._

_It is until you save Sammy._

_Already done._

_How?_

_We have our ways._

_That’s specific._ And then Dean realized that the archangel wouldn’t even allow a simple eye roll. It was hard, riding shotgun to an angel. Everything was controlled by another being and there was nothing Dean could do to stop it.

Then it didn’t matter anymore because, just like the last time his soul was reaped, Dean felt like he was floating, though he was standing still. He watched his body walk away, the power of an angel’s grace fueling it now that the soul was gone. He looked around the hotel room, feeling lighter than he had in years. It was strange not to have the responsibility of the world’s fate on his shoulders. He’d made his choice and now he had to live with it—or die with it.

Now that he was dead, his life took on a different perspective, one in which he could see all of the decisions that had been laid out before him and just how all of the twists and turns of them had shaped the way the world was. It was frightening, but the knowledge also came with a large amount of peace. The decisions were someone else’s to make, now that he was dead.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Death,” Dean greeted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two, count them, t-w-o more chapters left in this fic. However, we only have one post left. That's right, Fearless Readers. The next two chapters will be posted together: the finale and the epilogue. Who's ready for the apocalypse? I am. Next, and final, post for this fic will be on Saturday. Remember, Readers, to comment. I'd really like to hear from all of you before the story ends, or even after it ends, just as long as I hear from you! Laura out... until Saturday. Read on!


	28. Chained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Fearless Readers, Laura here. So... I'm a liar... again. I admit it. I got to writing the last two chapters for you guys and, guess what? It was too long. So, instead of two chapters, I have three. I know, horrible, right? Chapter numero uno for you: Chained. Remember to review, people. We're in the home stretch now. The finale is upon us. Read on!
> 
> Oh and *SPOILERS: season 5 finale...

It was strange how strange it wasn’t. It had been only three days, but he had already reached his quota of one hundred thousand souls and it was more than familiar to him now. Sure it had been strange in the beginning, but by the end of the first hour—hell, the end of the first five minutes—reaping a soul was an easy process. He didn’t know exactly how he appeared where he needed to be, but all he had to do was look down at the list in his hand and, when he looked up, the soul was there in front of him. He also didn’t know how he was able to recognize one soul from the other, but there was no mistaking them.

He’d asked Death once why some souls were stamped with names they’d never even heard before when others were stamped with their given name, or why he was stamped with Winchester instead of Clark.

“Names transcend time, Dean,” was all that Death had said.

Dean didn’t understand it, but then again he couldn’t understand even half of what Death said. Death was old, but more than that, he had an understanding of the universe that not even the eldest of his Reapers could hope to obtain. Dean was a new soul, one that had been created less than a century before, stamped immediately with his Name: Dean Winchester. His brother was older, but he’d been stamped Samuel Winchester from creation, though he’d lived many lives before this one.

Then there were those he’d reaped that were older than he thought with Names that were stranger than he had imagination. The most memorable soul he’d collected was Named Yanga. He’d lived in upstate New York as fireman Teddy Stanley when he died with the collapse of a local hospital. Yanga was interesting conversation, soul shimmering strangely, set apart from the others in his charge when he was taken a Life Gate to be reborn as Sophia Chan. Dean could understand the difference between Names and names, but he couldn’t see the reason behind _why_ there was a difference or how he knew a souls name even if it didn’t appear on his list.

But after reaping the first couple thousand souls, Dean stopped wondering, stopped asking, too busy, even with time slowed down like it was, with reaping the souls of Earth. Michael and Lucifer’s battle far outreached the church in Maryland. He ran into countless Reapers, searching for their own souls, all gathered in the same places, stepping on each others’ toes to reach their own quotas. One could easily collect a hundred souls in a pass, but the thousands, the hundreds of thousands that were destroyed wherever the archangels fought, resulted in hundreds of Reapers wandering the Earth. After only three days, Dean had two Reapers shadowing him, learning the ropes before being tossed out into the field.

It was hectic, but it kept Dean from seeing the destruction around him. Buildings crumbled, whole cities fell. The entire state of Maryland had been reaped the first day and was now void of anything but bloody remains among the rubble. It wasn’t only human bodies that littered the streets. Those of animal and monster alike lied dead around him. Neither angel seemed concerned with any form of life other than their own and each others’.

There were no breaks. By day six, Dean had collected almost three times what he’d had by the third day. By the end of the first month, he’d lost track. The lists were useless now. As he walked down soon-to-be-doomed streets, lost in the twists and turns of unfamiliar places, he touched everyone he passed, reaping every soul he came across lest he leave one to the angels.

Slowly, the world decayed. When Dean looked down at his now-empty list, he wondered whether that meant that there were no souls left to reap.

 

 

 

It was strange how strange it was. Souls had been his business for the last century. Hundreds of thousands of them had passed through the gates of his kingdom, demons seeking his guidance to sort them. He’d examined them, tortured them, took them apart strand by strand, reassembled them, and experimented constantly with the souls in his care—though ‘care’ was a loose term in this case. There were things even _he_ hadn’t been proud of doing when he’d been the King of Hell. The souls he’d seen and felt during that time, though, couldn’t prepare him for this.

It was different than anything else he’d ever experienced. Time moved slowly for him so that every minute that passed on Earth was near to an hour for him, leaving him open to collecting a multitude of souls in one sweep. That, in and of itself, wasn’t so different. It had been the same in Hell, but the souls he collected were void of the taint he often associated with them.

Some didn’t want to come, but most were open. Their death was taken with a grain of salt and the souls followed him without much prompting. They were soft and white, not stamped with a print of ownership. They were quiet and peaceful, not screaming with the pain of Lucifer’s grace. They were compliant and willing, not scared still with the fear that he would hurt them. Though he was dealing with the souls of the dead, they weren’t of the damned, and that made all the difference.

Nothing of his experience in Hell could have prepared him for the devastation of the world around him. Somehow, it was worse on Earth than anywhere else. In Hell, he expected the rubble, the remains of the dead, the screams of pain. On Earth, the effect was duplicated among the living and Sam was there to clean up the mess. He didn’t know where Dean was, only that Death had offered him the same deal. They would become Reapers to help deal with the never-ending list of the dead and deliver the souls to the varying Gates. Heaven and Hell were only two Gates, created simply from the firm belief that they existed. There were others, dozens of Gates, all different, but revered among the Reapers.

The souls that were meant to reincarnate were the worst, in his opinion. Those were delivered to a Life Gate, directly to the body of a newborn child. Knowing what was to come was not the pleasure he once thought it to be. The souls taken to the Life Gates would reappear on his list only days, hours, seconds later. Quite often, he didn’t even feel the need to bring the soul to a Gate, knowing that it was listed again five or six Names down. Once a master of torture, all he wanted now was to make things easier on the souls in his possession. It was often easier to hold onto the souls himself than to continue reaping them over and over again, wearing them out so quickly that they came unraveled. He delivered them to more permanent Gates, but even he knew that it was temporary.

Michael and Lucifer had destroyed whole continents of people, souls all reaped before their time by Reapers who were floundering to make a dent in their lists. Sam could see them falling through the cracks, first the souls taken to the Life Gates, then the others. They disappeared from his list just as often, though he tried to be conscious of the ones in his charge. He would touch the shoulder of a passing person to collect the soul before the angels laid waste to it, but there was nothing—no Name on his list, no soul to collect.

He lost track of the time, flitting from one place to the next, searching for souls, but those that were there were lost, consumed quickly by the two warring archangels.

Soon, they weren’t even angels. Corrupted by the power and weight of a trillion souls, they fought harder, destroying everything in their wake until nothing remained. Whole planets dissolved and suns collapsed against their might. Gates were forced open and broken, no pathways remaining to transport a soul even if he could find one. Then, one by one, the Reapers began disappearing.

It wasn’t noticeable at first. There were so many Reapers out in the world, now that the apocalypse had started. They swarmed over planet faces, collecting, collecting, collecting. Sam didn’t even realize he was alone until his fourth soulless town. He’d been so focused on the souls disappearing from his list that, when he looked up, he was shocked, sure that he’d missed something important because he _couldn’t_ be the only one out here. There had been _thousands_.

But the thousands of Reapers were gone, consumed by the angels, right along with the human souls.

“Death,” he called, flitting to his new master’s side.

Death stood on a lonely street, long since destroyed, but he was calm and thoughtful, surely remembering the buildings that had once towered in front of him. He was normally hard to read, but Sam thought he looked… nostalgic.

Death turned at Sam’s voice, curiosity on his face masked by the hint of annoyance. “They’re gone, Samuel,” Death said. “All of them.”

“Dean?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“He’s safe,” Death said, not bothering to turn and face him. “It won’t be too much longer until he realizes what happened.”

“ _What the hell!?_ ” came the familiar voice.

“It seems as if I miscalculated. I thought for sure it would be another day, at least, before he discovered the extent of the damage.”

“Sammy?” Dean asked, shocked at the sight.

“It’s Sam,” he said reflexively, though it had been too long since he’d corrected his brother. They embraced in a tight hug and Sam found emotions surfacing that he never thought he’d ever feel again. Shame and grief were at the top of the list, but more than anything, he was happy that Dean was still alive, and relief took the place of everything else because his brother was safe.

“How touching,” Death commented. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but there are quite a few problems in need of our attention, the apocalypse being the most pertinent. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to stop _wasting time_ and possibly come up with a solution.”

Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen Death so angry. He was normally calm, collected. Even in the face of the worst of the apocalypse—he didn’t think he’d ever forget Istanbul’s last stand—Death gave orders without reservation, not even seeming to notice the chaos happening around him. Now, though, Death was angry. No. If anything, Death was _pissed_. This wasn’t just the destruction of worlds, this was the destruction of _souls_. This was personal for Death, Sam realized.

Dean seemed to have hopped on the same thought train because the words that came out of his mouth mimicked Sam’s thoughts almost exactly.

“We can fix it,” Dean said. “We can get the souls back and patch them up just like you did me, no problem. There’s still plenty of angels, right? Enough grace to go around?”

Death looked contemplative for a moment before he shook his head. “There are too many souls and too few angels,” he said. “Aside from that, it would be nearly impossible to stop Michael and Lucifer in their quarrelling. If we couldn’t to that, the souls would just be destroyed again.”

It was hard, seeing Death look so dejected.

“Aren’t you, like, more powerful than the G-man?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, exasperated. G-man? Why the hell couldn’t Dean be normal for once? It was the freaking _apocalypse_ after all. Then again, if God had been here to stop the angels from fighting, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

“I don’t see what any of that has to do with the situation. Regardless of my power, I am bound to the angels. As long as they exist, I am unable to meddle in their affairs.”

It was only then that Sam could make out the light shimmer of the chains that tied Death to the Earth. He wouldn’t be able to move even a block in any direction. For a being like Death, it had to have been the equivalent of being held in a cardboard box that was at least a dozen sizes too small. He had to be aching for release. It was no wonder that he was angry enough to allow his emotions to show.

But then Death’s face relaxed and even a slight smile could be found on his lips.

“One last move, Death, my man.” Dean smirked.

Sam ignored his brother calling Death ‘my man,’ and focused instead on the fact that he had a plan, not that his brother’s plans were all that solid to begin with.

“That is only a temporary solution, Dean. We need something a little more permanent. How does pizza sound?” he asked seemingly out of the blue.

Now it was Dean’s turn to look confused.

“ _I_ am unable to meddle in their affairs,” he explained. “But I am certain you and Samuel would have more luck.”

Speaking of, “why are we alive anyway?” he asked. “Everyone else is gone, but we’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “I mean, I get why you’re alive. Who’s gonna kill Death? But Sam and me, we’re just human. Well, we were human. Now we’re Reapers, I guess? Not that that stopped the dynamic duo from tearing through them like Christmas paper.”

“They both need you alive. Without your souls intact, they cannot continue to occupy your bodies.”

“They why don’t you just kill us already?” Dean asked.

Sam sighed and put his head in his hands. Leave it to Dean to practically beg Death to kill them.

“Because, Dean,” Death said, bemused. “Despite my distaste for the human race, I happen to _like_ you and your brother.”

Sam almost smiled at the sentiment until Death continued.

“Besides,” he said. “They’ve been preventing me from tearing apart your souls since, well, since you were born.” His smile was cheeky, but it held a hint of gravity that nearly had Sam cowering. Only Dean’s amused bark kept him from running.

“Well, it’s a good thing that things went our way for once, huh Sammy?”

“You didn’t think that this was how things were supposed to play out, did you?” Death asked. “Time isn’t written in stone, Dean, but the future was fairly certain until your imbecile of a father decided to change his mind. Now look what I’ve been reduced to, dealing with the devil, swapping time around like chess pieces. I don’t suppose you know how dire the consequences will be if I go through with this?”

“It’s not like you have a choice,” Dean said.

Sam was beginning to understand a little of what they were talking about, but he could have just as easily been inferring the wrong thing. “I don’t suppose you know how dire the consequences will be if you don’t,” Sam added, using Death’s argument against him.

Instead of the annoyed flick of the eyes that he’d been expecting, Death smirked in amusement, _touché_ written on his face.

 


	29. Speak

Daddy was sad. Daddy was always sad, but it wasn’t the normal kind, the kind like Dean got when he thought about Mommy and her red on the roof. This was a _real_ sad kind and Daddy kept looking at him like something bad was gonna happen. Dean snuck peaks at Sammy in his carrier to make sure that he was okay cause the last time Daddy got real sad like this was when something bad happened to him. This time, though, Dean was going to be there to make sure Sammy was okay and then maybe Daddy wouldn’t be real sad, just the regular kind like normal.

The car rumbled loud when they drove on the highway just like Sammy liked it. Dean kind of liked it too even though it made him shake cause the car was too bumpy. Sammy was asleep for a long time in the car. He was awake all night and needed extra sleep. That’s what Daddy said. Dean thought that maybe even though Sammy was little that he had bad dreams cause he woke up to cry sometimes just like Dean. But that was okay. Dean was there to make sure Sammy was better, like Daddy was for Dean when he had a bad dream.

Maybe that was why Daddy was real sad. Maybe he thought Sammy had real bad dreams last night cause he was loud enough to wake up Daddy. Normally, he was only loud enough to wake up Dean.

Real sadness explained, Dean sat back in his car seat and watched the blur of cars pass by the windows. Even when Daddy drove real fast, sometimes the other cars would be even faster. Dean wasn’t scared of them, though. He thought they looked cool, especially the old ones. There were other things to be scare about than fast cars.

Then Daddy came off the highway, and that was weird cause Daddy _never_ came off the highway unless Sammy was fussy or it was dark outside. Daddy liked to drive lots and lots all the time. Maybe this was like the time with the lady… Miss –Miss –Miss… the lady who talked lots. He liked her. Maybe they were gonna go see her again. Dean hoped so even though it made Daddy act funny for days and days before he was the same again.

But then Daddy stopped in a parking lot and Dean was sad again cause they weren’t seeing the Miss lady. He wasn’t the _real_ sad like Daddy, though, but the normal kind. Then he looked up and saw where they were: _Rinascita Pizzeria_. He didn’t know what the first word was, but the second said pizza and that was enough to have his tummy growling. Dean licked his lips, wanting to jump out of the car and run inside, but he had to wait for Daddy to open the door for him. Besides, he wouldn’t leave Sammy. He was supposed to take care of Sammy and that meant no leaving.

There wasn’t lots of people inside and that meant that their pizza would be faster. Sure enough, they brought him a big slice, bigger than he’d ever eaten before, and set it down right in front of him. It looked so yummy that he dug in. He knew he was making a big mess, but it tasted better than it looked and he couldn’t help it if the sauce was lots and it got everywhere when he bit. Dean looked down at Sammy, but Sammy didn’t get pizza cause he was still a baby and he was sleeping. Dean couldn’t wait for Sammy to get bigger so he could eat pizza. It was _awesome_.

Dean looked at Daddy, wanting to ask him a question, ask him why he didn’t have any pizza, but questions were bad, Mommy had said so. Well, she didn’t said so, but Dean knew that they were bad cause when he asked things sometimes she would get mad. Mommy wasn’t here anymore, but Daddy probably didn’t like questions either and Dean needed to listen anyway to make sure he didn’t miss something, so he didn’t ask.

Besides, Daddy could get pizza if he wanted some. When Daddies were real sad, maybe they didn’t _like_ pizza. But Dean thought that was stupid cause everybody liked pizza so that had to be wrong. Maybe Daddy was lying to him and he wanted pizza but they just didn’t have any for him too. Dean got sad again thinking like that and that made him not pay attention like he was supposed to. He didn’t notice that Daddy was sitting too still or that things stopped moving around him until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey.”

A man kneeled next to him, kept looking at him all over like Daddy did sometimes when he thought Dean might have got hurt. Dean wasn’t hurt, but he didn’t want to say so. Daddy said never to talk to strangers.

“I remember this place,” another man said. This one wasn’t so tall like the one in front of him and Dean thought maybe he might have saw him before somewhere. “The pizza here was _awesome_.”

“Dean.”

Dean was shocked at his own name. No one knew his name, ever. They knew Daddy’s name all the time, but never Dean’s, not unless his Daddy told them. If Daddy told them, that made them good, right?

“What? It was,” the short man said, crossing his arms like Dean used to do before Mommy. Now Dean was a Good Boy, didn’t get in trouble like the short man was going to.

The tall man looked kind of angry, just a little bit like he didn’t like what the short man said. Dean didn’t like the tall man looking angry. He sat back in his seat to get far away, but then he saw Sammy in his carrier and knew that he couldn’t run cause then Sammy would be all alone and the big men could hurt him.

Maybe this was why Daddy was real sad. Maybe he knew that the big men were going to be here. Maybe he knew that the tall one was a little angry.

“Hey, Dean,” the tall man called him.

Dean crooked his head to the side like he knew people thought he was asking a question.

“Yeah?” the short man said, coming closer.

“Not you. Little Dean.”

Little Dean? That meant the short man was also Dean? Then who was the tall man? He looked a little like Mommy, but the body was too big, like Daddy’s. Big Dean looked like Daddy lots more than the tall one.

“Hey,” Big Dean said, putting his hand on the tall one’s shoulder. “Maybe I should talk to him—me—him—whatever. I think I remember enough.”

The tall one nodded and got up all the way, standing bigger than Daddy even though Daddy was always bigger than anyone.

Big Dean kneeled down like the tall man did next to him, but he didn’t try to touch him like the tall one did. Dean liked that better. He didn’t like people to touch him that he didn’t know, which meant only Sammy and Daddy.

“Hey, Dean-o,” Big Dean said, calling him a Daddy’s-only nickname. He scowled at it, but Big Dean kept talking. “I know you’re scared, buddy, about a lot more than just me and Sammy.”

Dean was confused. How did Big Dean know he was scared about Sammy? Then the tall one turned around when he heard the name and Dean realized that the tall one was also Sammy. Big Dean and Big Sammy. Dean and Sammy. They would be like the same if only Big Sammy was the littler one.

“I remember this. It was right before the hospital.”

Dean shivered. He _hated_ hospitals. They _always_ gave shots, even when Daddy said they wouldn’t.

“Dad was sad… _real_ sad.”

How did Big Dean know? Was he inside his head? Maybe if Big Dean knew he was confused, he’d explain. But Big Dean didn’t explain. He just kneeled there, thinking more of stuff Dean didn’t know about. Big Sammy coughed a little and Big Dean blinked his eyes real fast and looked at Dean again.

“Do you know why Dad’s real sad, Dean?”

Dean thought about not answering, but thought that maybe Big Dean wasn’t bad. He shook his head.

“He’s sad because he thinks he’s a bad dad for you and baby Sammy.”

Dean was angry now. He didn’t care how big the men were. Anyone who called Daddy a bad daddy was mean and stupid and… and… and _wrong_. Daddy was the best daddy, even if he did stuff backwards sometimes, because he was good and he saved people, even when he was sad for Mommy. Dean wanted to scream at Big Dean, but he kept his mouth closed because Big Dean was talking again and he promised that he would listen better, even to people he didn’t like.

“He thinks that he can’t take care of you anymore so he’s going to take you somewhere so you can have a different dad. You and Sammy.”

Dean was confused. How could he have a different daddy? He only had one, didn’t want another one. Sammy was too little to know if he wanted a different daddy or not, but Dean was sure that when Sammy was bigger, he would think the same as Dean.

“But he’s wrong,” Big Dean said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Dean nodded lots so Big Dean would know that he knew it was wrong.

“Good. I need you to do something, Dean, something you think is real scary.”

Dean tried to look brave when he nodded again, but he didn’t think it worked. Dean didn’t like doing scary things.

“You’re real brave, the bravest. You need to tell Dad that you don’t want to go away. I need you to speak, Dean. I know it’s scary. It’s the scariest thing in the whole world right now, but I promise that it’ll be a real good thing and it’ll make your dad real happy. Sammy too,” he added.

Dean didn’t know if he could do it, didn’t know if he even _wanted_ to do it. They could be real bad, getting him in trouble, making him do bad things. But then Dean looked into Big Dean’s eyes and saw that, even though Big Sammy looked lots like Mommy, Big Dean’s eyes would look like hers if he smiled. Dean wanted him to smile right now so he could see if he was right, so he nodded again, being brave.

Sure enough, Big Dean smiled. Dean smiled too, liking Mommy’s eyes smiling again even if she wasn’t here.

“Good boy,” Big Dean said. He stood up and left with Big Sammy. Before he walked out the door, he turned around for a small second. He smiled real crooked like his Mommy did when she was thinking happy secrets in her head. Then he winked like Daddy did when he told a funny joke. It was nice. Dean liked it, hoped he would see Big Dean again.

“You okay, Dean?” Daddy asked.

Dean turned to look at him. People were moving again and Big Dean and Big Sammy were gone. His Daddy was still sad, _real_ sad, and Dean didn’t know what to do about it.

“Are you okay?” he asked again.

Dean nodded, shook his head, nodded again. He didn’t know if he was okay or not.

“Are you gonna sent us away?” He asked the question before he even had time to think about it. He was being brave like he told Big Dean he would be. Daddy couldn’t ever send them away, Dean would make sure.

But Daddy smiled real big and Dean didn’t even know why Big Dean would try to trick him like that. Daddy wouldn’t do that. He loved them.

“Never,” Daddy said, and that was good enough for Dean.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, I love writing little Dean. He's just so damn cute. Let me know what you think in your review! One chapter left, Readers. The epilogue awaits!


	30. Epilogue: Death Counted

_It was time, finally. It had been a twenty-six year wait to get to this moment in time, but it was well worth it in his mind. Normally, the decades would pass quickly for Death, but being chained was making the years stretch out interminably before him._

_He looked down at his list as he exited his car. Dean would appreciate it, he knew. It was a classic. He didn’t have much need for the white steed, but if he was stuck on Earth, he might as well enjoy some of the perks. The car was merely one change he’d made. Food was another. There was just something about Earth food that he couldn’t explain. Taste was such a wonderful sensation. There was no need to waste it, especially when there were so many enjoyable things to eat on this planet._

_As he walked down the street, he saw his target coming toward him. With a quick bump, the man’s soul was reaped. Seconds later, his body collapsed, dead of an aneurism. Death brushed his shoulder where a powdery substance clung to his overcoat. Humans were such a filthy bunch. Still, they made delectable food. He thought about all of the different restaurants he’d been to, but settled on the one most familiar to him in this small Chicago town:_ Rinascita Pizzeria.

_The pizza was rather good. There weren’t many pizzerias that could satisfy his appetite, but this one was well on its way after only one slice. If it wasn’t for Dean’s futile attempt at sneaking up on him—and with his own scythe, nonetheless—Death would have found the evening quite peaceful. Sure, Lucifer still had him bound to Earth, carrying out items on his pointless agenda, but it wouldn’t be but a week before he was out of his shackles, and that had him an a pleasant mood._

_“Thanks for returning that,” he said as the scythe clattered to the ground, too hot for Dean to hold. It reappeared at his side like it was supposed to, sitting obtrusively at the table while he continued his meal. “Join me, Dean. The Pizza’s delicious.”_

_He could almost feel Dean’s fear. It was unbecoming. Dean’s was a soul that was strengthened by its confidence. Fear was a piteous emotion, didn’t compliment Dean well at all. Still, Dean approached the table, albeit too slowly for his taste._

_“Sit down,” he said in a conversational tone, busying himself with picking the fallen peppers with his fork as Dean sat in the seat across from him._

_“Took you long enough to find me. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”_

_“I got to say,” Dean said, voice shaking slightly. “Mixed feelings about that.”_

_Whether stupidity or bravery—and Death was willing to admit that the two were often one in the same—the conversation would be nothing without the boy’s audacity. It was one of the things that drew him to the eldest Winchester, even as it irritated him, the ability to joke in the face of danger._

_“So is this the part where…” Dean cleared his throat. “Where you kill me?”_

_Somehow, Death wasn’t sure how, the last statement seemed to calm Dean. His shoulders were lax, waiting. His eyes were resigned, not the least bit challenging. It was the soul, though, that Death struggled to comprehend. It dared Death to destroy it, stood tall and still. It wouldn’t run if Death chose to attack, and he suspected that Dean wouldn’t run either. This was one that had saved so many souls, Death could no longer count them. Every new soul that was created was just another to add to the list. It would be never ending, the amount of lives that had been saved._

_There was more conversation as Dean built his courage. None was as important as this moment, though, the moment that Dean could free him, that Lucifer’s defeat would be set._

_Death set his fork and knife down and leaned forward in his seat. “I understand you want this,” he said, holding up his hand to show off his ring._

_“Yeah,” Dean said, the word nearly stuck in his throat._

_“I’m inclined to give it to you.”_

_Thoughts churned in Dean’s head, always in concern for the others in his charge. “What about… Chicago?” Dean asked._

_Death truly had to suppress the urge to grin then. “I suppose it can stay,” he said. “I like the pizza.”_

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, what do you think? Happy? Sad? Angry? A myriad of mixed emotions that you want to express? Write it all down in your comments :) Good or bad, one word or two, let me know what you think. If you like it, forget the ring. Kudos it! Bookmark it! Review it!
> 
> It's been a good journey, Fearless Readers, and a huge THANK YOU to everyone who followed and reviewed. It made (still makes) me happy to know you guys enjoyed the chapters I put out.
> 
> This is it for now, though. I don't know if I'll continue later on, but if I do, it won't be a sequel. I might think about doing the Sam "Boy King of Hell" Winchester story line because I kind of glossed over it. Possibly, a Reaper during the apocalypse series. For now, though, I'm calling it quits on this fic. I have a few other story lines I want to follow up on first, but in the meantime, Fearless Readers, read on!

**Author's Note:**

> "Hmmm, I have some thoughts on this work, but I can't seem to find a way to convey my ideas." 
> 
> Never fear, Reader! Laura is here to save the day! Just type what you want to say in that box below, click on that comment button there, and you're good to go. It will be sent directly to my inbox for me to read and smile over :) Problem solved.


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